


Songs of Fire and the Night

by Robin_Fai



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: (p.s. dragons!), Alternate Universe - Dragons, Bi Morse, But Makes is just daft, But you asked for more of my madness!, Did I mention? - DRAGONS!, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Fire, Gosh I hate that ship name, Hoarde, Human Dragons, Hurt/Comfort, I never mean to join this ship but..., M/M, Morkes? Moakes?, Period-Typical Homophobia, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford, Set around series 3, Tagged as graphic but might not go that way, Violence, Whump, because nope to that, but not much of it, i still don't know what i'm doing, jarse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 53,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin_Fai/pseuds/Robin_Fai
Summary: There's been a mysterious death - at least they think someone died - its hard to say for sure when all they've got to show for it is a pile of ash.Oh and Morse is a dragon. Need I say more?
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 197
Kudos: 83





	1. Hic Sunt Dracones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imaginationtherapy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/gifts), [Hekate1308](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/gifts), [guardianoffun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/gifts).



> Folks. You asked for this. Literally. You wanted to know what other mad ideas I have, well here you go.
> 
> I'm gifting this to several of you that are responsible for my new productivity in writing down my fics (not that I know what gifting is or does). This is all your faults for inspiring me to share. Enjoy!

The man in the alley was not old, but he had certainly seen better days. He wouldn’t live to see any more, better or worse, than today. The woman before him would see to that. He had made many mistakes in his life, but this one would be his undoing. 

A pair of amber eyes flashed dangerously in the darkness before him. A curl of flame worked its way between bared teeth. The woman had a kind of terrible beauty to her in her rage. He would have felt awed to get to see such a sight, if it wasn’t going to be his last.

He tried one last time to plead with her. 

“It wasn’t my fault – please – I couldn’t do anything… _please!_ ”

His words fell on deaf ears. The last he saw was a wall of blindingly bright light before he knew no more. It was glorious in its power. Ablaze with a myriad of colours. Like drowning in molten opal. Such terrible beauty. Such a shame he wouldn’t live to remember it.

~~~~~

The alley was illuminated by the light from the rear door of the pub’s kitchen, and the regular flashes of blue from the police car stationed at the end, when Morse arrived. The scene was eerily quiet considering the number of people in the narrow space. Debryn was crouched beside a light-coloured mass on the floor, with Thursday and Jakes stood beside him. In the doorway to the pub stood a clearly shaken man, in catering whites, and a uniformed officer. All eyes were fixed upon the pile of pale gray ashes that the doctor was inspecting.

“What have we got?” He asked. Although he knew from the instant he set eyes upon those sad remains, he didn’t want it to be true. The sound of his voice made the man in the doorway jump. Thursday lifted his eyes to meet Morse’s. 

“Not much, and far too much, all in one messy little package.” Came the reply. Thursday was clearly not happy with this find. _He knows._ Morse didn’t know how, yet, but the Inspector definitely knew what he was looking at and all that it would entail. He tried not to shiver in the cold that radiated from his superior officer. 

“We don’t actually know for sure though, do we?” Jakes spoke with the confidence that came from never having dealt with a case like this. Never having seen the remains of a human reduced to nothing but ash. “Could be the sweepings from someone’s hearth for all we know right now.”

“The Sergeant does have a point.” DeBryn spoke up at this point. He gently poked at the ashes and retrieved something from them with a pair of tweezers. Morse felt sick. He turned his head slightly, taking the scene in only from the corner of his eye.

“What do you think, Constable?” Thursday asked him, his voice dark. “Ever seen a dragon strike before?” 

Of course he had. Far too many actually. But only a human victim of it a couple of times before, and he’d been a child then. In the war, things had been different. Not that he could say that. How could he tell them that he was exactly the thing they feared so much. 

“Just the once.” He decided that that was his safest bet in answering.

“And this...” Thursday reached for the right words to prescribe to the pile of ashes at his feet.

Morse looked about the poorly lit scene. He knew exactly what had caused the demise of the man at the Inspector’s feet, but he couldn’t say why, so he looked for the scientific reasons, the human reasons, to ascribe this to the rage of a dragon.

“The ashes are fine, the volume consistent with human remains. There aren’t any signs of burning anywhere else. Its certainly accordant with a dragon strike.”

Jakes rolled his eyes and stepped away from the ‘body’. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. The curl of the flame, and the flare as he drew on the cigarette, drew Morse’s attention against his will. The fire in the dim light of the alley was enticing. It illuminated the Jakes’ angular features. Morse forced himself to look away. 

“I jus’…” The man in the doorway to the pub spoke, he looked to the Inspector. “I jus’ heard this screamin’, and I comes out here, and there’s this great light and then… then nothin’. Nothin’ at all. Jus’ this pile of ash. I saw it, in the war one time. I’d know it anywhere. Bloody dragons.” He took a shuddering breath. “Can I go now, please?” The Inspector nodded and the man practically fled back into the pub.

Morse looked at his shoes, hands curled into fists deep in his pockets.

“Well now,” Debryn murmured, “I’d say that’s enough to be going on. let’s get this… these remains recorded and bagged so I can see what I can do about trying to get something more from them back at the office.

~~~~~

At the station everyone was talking. Morse tried to tune out their gossip but he found it at every turn. _A dragon strike!_ It was big news in Oxford. It would be big news everywhere pretty soon. It was his worst nightmare. There was a small chance that they would decide the witness was wrong, that the ashes wouldn’t be conclusive enough, but then the killer would get away, unpunished. He couldn’t live with that idea, so he would have to live with the chaos that was sure to come.

Jakes came up behind him and watched him typing up the crime scene report. He tried not to make it obvious that his presence distracted him. A dragon’s senses are far more refined than that of a human. Even in human form his skin tingled at the feel of the tall man behind him. The smell of tobacco and aftershave filled his lungs. He wanted to breathe in deeply, to enjoy the smell, but that would be weird. 

“Something you want, Jakes?” He asked, not turning.

“How do you always know I’m here?”

“Well, you’re not exactly light on your feet, and you smoke far more than is sensible. I could smell you coming before you got in the room.” He said it like a sarcastic joke, but there was more truth to it than he would want the other man to know. Jakes snorted. Morse wasn’t sure if it was in amusement or annoyance, and he wasn’t going to ask.

“The old man wants us.” Jakes turned and headed towards the Inspectors office. Morse took a few seconds to try and breathe in some air that didn’t smell of Peter Jakes, then got up and followed him.

Thursday was pacing behind his desk when Morse entered the room. He didn’t indicate for them to sit, so Jakes and Morse stood awkwardly while they waited for him to speak. Morse had a bad feeling about this. Any investigation into a dragon strike was bound to draw all the wrong kinds of attention.

“I’m locking this one down.” Thursday paused in his pacing and looked to Morse and Jakes. “We need to keep this _out_ of the papers, _away_ from the general public, _as long as possible!_ ”

“Surely that’s not going to be possible, Sir?” Jakes protested “The people in the pub-”

“Our witness isn’t speaking to anyone else about this. I’ve spoken to him about that already. No one else in there saw or heard anything. And as for the station – I’ll be making the announcement in a minute that any man going blabbing to the press _will_ be found and will have me to answer to.” 

“What good will it do? It’ll come out one way or another. Why keep it quiet now?”

“Because we don’t want a panic. Things here in Oxford, they’re good. After the war, well, we don’t want to go back to that.” Morse tried to keep his breathing steady, but he understood Thursday’s meaning all too well. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. Memories threatened to overwhelm him. The images that flooded his mind were too dark, too painful to face. His ever present control faltered...

“Morse?” His head jerked up. Thursday had gone and Jakes was looking at him curiously. “Were you even awake then?”

“Sorry, bad night’s sleep,” he lied. “Must have zoned out.”

Jakes snorted, “do you ever get a _good_ night’s sleep?” Morse shrugged. “Right, well, the Guv wants us to go down to the local dragon haunts and ask some ‘discreet’ questions. Any idea where we’re to go? ‘Local dragon haunts’ aren’t exactly on my usual list of locals.”

Morse sighed “Come on, I’ve got a couple of ideas.” He knew exactly where they ought to go, but it wouldn’t do to admit that if Jakes had no idea.

~~~~~

Morse drove them to the edge of the city. He knew of only two social spots for dragons in Oxford. Since the late 40’s dragons had been much more careful to keep their presence in society quiet. Things had settled down now, but none of the community could easily forget the violence that had followed the war.

Dragons had been called upon to serve in the war far more than any other community. They obliged, mostly, but it was the first time that many had ever seen what they were capable of. Once the war was over, what had been a wary kind of reliance turned to suspicion and fear. Over the course of several years, many dragons were killed by the very people they had once trusted. It was a kind of mania for a while. The ones left behind, once the dust settled, withdrew from the limelight. They no longer walked openly among the humans, but hid in the shadows. Few these days dared to openly advertise their status, or socialise anywhere that might bring suspicion upon them.

Endeavour Morse had been hiding in those shadows from the day his mother was killed. It hurt to say she had died of cancer. He didn’t want to talk about the truth of what had happened. It was far worse than any child should go through. Lying felt like an insult to her memory, but it was easier than telling the truth.

He pulled up outside a nondescript bar in a rough part of town, near to the river. Jakes looked at their surroundings and raised an eyebrow at Morse.

“Here?”

“I heard some rumours. Might as well check it out, right? Unless you’ve got any better ideas?” He knew Jakes wouldn’t. He worried that perhaps he shouldn’t have any way of knowing of this haunt, but how would Jakes know that. He went to get out of the car but a hand on his arm stopped him. 

“Wait...” Jakes had the strangest expression. Morse tilted his head in a silent query. “Is it true, do you know… do you think?”

“What?” He frowned. He had no idea what Jakes was getting at. His hand on his arm made his skin feel uncomfortably warm. He needed to shake it off before Jakes noticed.

“You know… That they’re all...” 

“Spit it out Jakes.”

“Gay! That they’re all gay.”

“What? No. Not exactly.” His insides felt kind of light and airy. He’d never really understood the term ‘butterflies in the stomach’ before, but now he suddenly did. The hand on his arm made him feel hotter than ever. He quickly made a pretence of checking for his notepad in his pocket to shake off Jakes’ touch. 

“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”

“Well, I heard they’re more… into everyone. That gender doesn’t mean the same thing to them as it does to humans.” He’d nearly said ‘to us’ when he was talking about dragons. He was getting seriously flustered. He needed to get out of the car.

“Oh. Right.”

“Problem?”

Jakes just shrugged. “Long as they do right, I don’t really see the harm in it.”

Morse took a steadying breath and then got out of the car. Since the events of Blenheim Vale, Peter had treated him more like a friend and colleague than an annoyance. On the one hand, he liked not having to constantly clash with him, on the other, it made it so much harder to avoid him noticing the way he reacted to him. He began to head across the street to the bar. Jakes ran after him.

“Hold up! I know they’re not meant to be dangerous unless really angry, but surely we shouldn’t just wander into what might be one of their bars?”

“What do you suggest?”

Jakes ran a hand through his hair, “fine. Follow my lead then.” He walked up to the door of the bar with a confidence Morse knew to be all show. He followed behind, the meek Constable.

The bar was brightly lit. there were lights on despite it being daytime and candles on the tables. At the bar, several tall men were smoking. It was a common ploy used by dragons to conceal when they literally smoked, plus the desire for fire was pretty much hard-wired into them. 

Morse felt a sense of relief at the clientele in his line of sight. He’d harboured a fear, despite not mixing with the local dragon community at all during his time in Oxford, that there would be someone who recognised him. He began to follow Jakes to the bar, aware that all eyes were on them, and him in particular. Dragons could tell their own kind. Another presence stirred behind him, a familiar smell of wood smoke and lilacs met his senses, and he suddenly knew he had made a big mistake.

“Endeavour!” The woman’s voice was smooth as silk. The way she said his name was like a cat purring. He closed his eyes, and sighed deeply, before turning around to face her.

“Callista.” There was no point pretending he didn’t know her. She was not the sort to tolerate that kind of behaviour. He could _feel_ Peter Jakes watching him, wondering. 

Yes, this had been a _very_ big mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sure how long this will be yet! Not too long, I think. Hope someone out there is as taken with the idea of DragonMorse as I am <3


	2. Where There's Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one... got away from me a bit. Those boys just can't be trusted to do as they're told.

Callista sized him up. Her amber eyes were calculating. Morse couldn’t really have had much worse luck. There were a small number of dragons he knew from his youth. Out of all of those, running into Callista could only be disastrous. He gave her a half smile and tried not to panic. Callista had no discretion. She was one of the few dragons who was open about her status. She had never been one to hide, in fact it would have been hard for her to do so. She had a grace and elegance that was otherworldly when in her human form, and her eyes were perpetually a dragon’s. He had not expected to find someone like her in a shabby bar like this. 

“You’ve changed.” She smiled widely at him; her teeth dangerously pointed. Callista took a showily large breath. “You smell the same though. Same old Endeavour.”

“You’re just as I remember you, Callista.” He tried to put an edge of warning into his voice, for all the good it would do.

“Who’s your friend?” Callista stage whispered to him so the whole place could hear. “He looks delicious.” She looked over his shoulder to where Jakes stood.

“This is Detective Sergeant Jakes, I’m with the police now.” It was far more blunt than he would have gone with otherwise, but he was concerned what would happen if Callista got her claws on Jakes. He wanted to bristle, to throw up a protective front, but he couldn’t. His need to protect his identity warred with his desire to protect Jakes.

Callista looked sharply back to him. He knew Jakes could not see his face, so he used the opportunity to let his eyes flash a brief, golden, warning. From the downward turn of her expression he knew he had got through to her, and she wasn’t happy.

Jakes stepped alongside him. He was nervous, Morse could tell from the tension in his shoulders. It was a small tell, the others likely wouldn’t notice, and even if they did might misinterpret it as aggression.

“Pleasure to meet you Miss-“

“Just Callista please, _Sergeant_. I don’t use a human family name.” She reached out her hand in the offering of a handshake. Jakes pretended not to notice and took the opportunity to begin their questioning.

“DC Morse and I are here because we’ve got a potential dragon related situation. Have you heard of anything happening with any of the local population that could cause issues, or anyone from out of town about lately?”

Callista made her distaste for the questions apparent in her expression. She examined her violently sharp nails as she answered. “Dragons don’t cause ‘situations’, Sergeant. And the only visitors here today are you, and me.” She looked up and met Jakes’ gaze, “I’d suggest you _both_ made an error coming here today.”

“Why _are_ you here Callista?” He asked her, suddenly wary. “I thought you had settled in Scotland.”

“You have heard of _holidays_ , haven’t you, Endeavour?” He winced at her continued use of his name. He knew she was using it intentionally to try and rile him and deflect his questions.

“To Oxford? In November?” 

She sniffed and looked him up and down again. “I’d heard Oxford was something of a destination, what with all these old colleges and libraries. Seems I was mistaken.” She turned her attention to Jakes. “Although, I am now finding there are some evident attractions.” She gave Jakes another of her assessing looks. She smiled at him hungrily, and this time, Morse noted, Peter couldn’t quite hide his shiver of reaction. 

Callista was overstepping a line. He had made it clear to her to leave Jakes out of this equation, and he had no doubt she had understood him. When using his name had failed to drive him off, she had set to another tactic, one of trying to reel in _his_ human instead. 

“Perhaps I should speak with some of the locals instead.” Jakes said, his voice unsteady. Morse looked back to the bar, ostensibly to check who was there, but in reality to hide the flash he couldn’t quite keep from his eyes. When he looked back to Jakes, his eyes were safely back to their usual, unreadable, blue.

“They can hear you quite clearly, Sergeant.” Callista said. “If they wanted to talk to you, they would.” It was evident to Morse it was part threat, part dismissal. Morse looked again to the bar. The men gathered there did not look happy. One looked to Callista with a frown and then gave Morse a barely noticeable nod. Nothing aggressive, just a sign that they did not want to talk, and that they weren’t keen on either his, or Callista’s, presence threatening their safety in obscurity.

Jakes was still looking at Callista. Morse needed to get him out of here, _now_. Luckily, Jakes had also heard the edge to her tone and came to the same decision, so Morse didn’t have to undermine his rank.

“Fair enough. We’ll be heading along then.” He looked back to the bar. “Any of you folks think of anything you need to tell me; I’ll leave a card with my number. I’m happy to talk privately if you prefer.” He pulled a card from his pocket and placed it down on the nearest table. 

“You can _talk_ to me privately anytime, Sergeant.” Callista crooned at him. Jakes turned a rather alarming shade of red. Morse could almost feel the heat of his embarrassment radiating. He decided to make his exit before things could get any worse, and hoped Jakes would follow.

~~~~~

The air outside was blessedly cold. Normally Morse hated the winter temperatures, but this time it was wonderfully refreshing, and helped him to get back in control of his fiery side. He had spent years repressing everything that made him a dragon as far as possible, but whenever he was around other dragons it called to his true nature. He didn’t know why he clung so rigidly to his human side; it was more than just fear.

Jakes appeared from the bar a few moments after him. “Old flame of yours?” Jakes indicated the bar with a laugh. Morse scowled at him in response. “Come on, _Endeavour!_ Tell all. Is she how you know so much about dragons, eh? And that’s not seriously what ‘E’ stands for is it?!” 

He had thought they were past this. He didn’t want to go back to the days of barbed comments and downright insults. He strode off across the street and got into the car, slamming the door with more force than was necessary. Jakes got in shortly after. 

“Not talking to me, eh?” He lit a cigarette as Morse got the car going and pulled away from the curb to head back to the station. “Come on, Morse! It was just a joke!”

Getting closer to Jakes had been dangerous. He ought to welcome this return to antagonism, but it just wasn’t in his nature. Dragon strikes were so rare because it was natural instinct for them to want to protect humans. He had felt it, like a pull, or a need, to protect ever since he was a very young child. His mother had taught him of peace, and duty. He had taught himself how to find a place in society where he could do that without wings, and teeth, and fire.

He didn’t respond, so Jakes tried another tactic. “Don’t blame you really. I wouldn’t say no to that.” His crude tone was a front and Morse knew it, but it still hit him in a way he was loathe to admit.

“Leave it Jakes.” He snapped. “You don’t know how dangerous she is.” 

“So tell me?” Morse focussed on the road ahead and ignored Jakes’ query. “Well? Is she a possible suspect do you think?”

Morse thought about that. He hadn’t really considered it. He had been too caught up in trying not to let her expose him that he hadn’t really given a thought to whether she could be a suspect. She was capable certainly, but it went against his very nature to imagine that any dragon could actually harm a human. In the war they had been called on for their ‘skills’ and wanting to protect _their_ humans many dragons had obliged, but outside of that circumstance they shied away from violence. The true driver of a dragon was Hoarde and Haven, not harm.

“I don’t know,” he hedged, “she could I suppose. But I’ve known her a long time, and to be honest I can’t see it. She likes to flirt, and play the part, but all she’s really interested in is books.”

“Books?!” Jakes laughed, “you’re not serious!”

“Hoarde comes in many forms.” 

Jakes settled into a thoughtful silence at that. They drove on for a few minutes before he spoke again. “Who is she to you, really? I mean- I’m not prying, but I do need to know if this is something I need to report to Thursday, you know?” If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Peter was fishing to see if they had been lovers.

“She’s just an old friend. Nothing more. We’ve not seen each other for years. Not since we were children really.” Peter seemed to relax at that. He needed to stop reading into things. It was far too distracting.

“How’d you come to be friends with a dragon?” Jakes asked, eyeing him curiously.

“You think you’d know if you had a dragon for a friend?”

“Of course!”

“Then how do so many live their whole lives undetected?”

“Well, maybe other folk are blind to it, but _I’d_ know.” Jakes sounded assured, but he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. 

“Would it be so terrible? They’re not so bad, really, are they?” He wanted to keep the hope from his voice, his need and desperation for someone to say they would accept him.

“I… I don’t know really.” Jakes’ voice was thoughtful. “I guess it would be a worry. Just think what could happen if you pissed them off! I’d never be able to talk to them they way I do to you.” The last was an apology of sorts, but it was ironic that it was completely wrong.

~~~~~

The rest of the day passed, slow, and tedious. It was hard to make progress on a case where they didn’t know who the victim was. Thursday set them to checking the most recent missing persons reports, but the truth was this was most likely someone that had yet to be reported missing.

People in the station were mutinous. No one wanted to admit they had wanted to go to the papers with the story for a little extra money, but to lose the rights to gossip about it at the pub at the end of the day stung. With no one to aim their grievance at, they turned it to dragons instead. He heard it all that day, how _vicious_ they were, how _greedy_ , how readily they took unjustified revenge. It was all lies, and he knew it, but it still hurt to hear what people still thought of his kind. 

When the end of the day rolled around they were no further forward than they had been that morning. Thursday ordered everyone home at the usual time. They could pick up the case the next day, when hopefully there might be something more to go on. Morse thought of his dingy basement flat and sunk lower in his chair. Slowly the room emptied out until he was the only one left. Thursday tried to force him home so he promised he would only be five more minutes looking over the reports he had out. It was a lie of course. He had no intention of heading back to his lonely place any time soon.

Haven was vital for dragons. A safe space, one where they could feel warm, and loved. It was why they rarely moved once settled. They found the right person, or people, for them, be they human or dragon, and a cozy place to live, filled that with their Hoarde, whatever it may be, and then protected that with all their power. Morse had not had anywhere he truly considered Haven since his mother was murdered. Other dragons could tell. He could read their pity when they looked at him. At least he had his Hoarde. Without that he would most likely have died. He nearly had, in fact, until he first heard the voice of Rosalind Calloway. The memory of her lifeless body in the cells came back to him unbidden. Then the memories of the awful, silent, cell he had ended up in just a short time ago, He felt the familiar cold of despair creeping into his bones...

His thoughts were disturbed when he realised he wasn't alone in the room. Someone else was leaning against a wall, smoking, and watching him. Jakes. 

"What are you still doing here?" He asked.

"Seriously, how do you do that?" Jakes put out his cigarette and wandered over.

"Told you before, if you want to be discreet, try not smoking so much."

"Huh, right. What are you working on so late?"

"Just checking any dragon related reports for the last couple of years."

"Years? Surely you'll be here all night at that rate."

Morse waved the thin file at Jakes. "Not exactly. There's barely anything in here, and so far all of it aimed _at_ dragons, rather than perpetrated _by_ them." Jakes whistled in surprise and took the file from Morse. He flicked through it, stopping to glance a one or two of the reports.

"They do really get a rough go of things, don't they?" Morse hummed his agreement, studying the case in front of him. "I was thinking..." Jakes waited for Morse to give him his full attention, "you mentioned another place for dragons. Nightclub or something in the city centre. We could check it out now?" Morse looked up in surprise. Considering their earlier venture he was surprised Jakes wanted to go near another dragon haunt so soon.

"You think that's a good idea?"

"If anyone does know anything, surely that'll be the place to be for gossip tonight." 

Morse was inclined to agree, but after their earlier disaster he was worried what might happen now. He couldn't let Peter go alone though, and he knew that whatever he said he would go. Against his better judgement he nodded his agreement.

~~~~~

Six pints, and a certain number of shots of whiskey, later he had to concede his first instinct had been correct. He should have somehow talked Peter out of this. Now they were stuck in a dragon club, trying to blend in. The problem with that being that the other dragons knew what he was, and what Peter wasn't, and therefore expected Peter only to be there if he was on Morse's arm. This was not good. Very not good. What made matters worse was the alcohol going straight to his head. He realised he had skipped lunch again, and dinner, so six pints onto an empty stomach had left him feeling rather uninhibited.

And then there was the biggest issue. Peter. He seemed to be as drunk as Morse felt and getting all the more attractive to him by the minute. Peter didn't know dragons could identify one another. He didn't know why people kept looking their way. He only knew that they were gathering unwanted attention for some reason. The alcohol got the better of Morse's better judgement and he decided to 'solve' the problem.

"Let's dance!" He practically shouted in Peter's ear, over the loud music.

"What? Why?"

"They think we're here together. They think one of us is a dragon. We ought to keep that act up if we want to blend in." He wasn't trying to blend in. It would serve that purpose of course, but mostly he was just trying to get an excuse to dance with Peter, just the once. He grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor. Peter followed on without resisting, but with a confused look. 

The club was small, but busy, so the dancefloor was crowded by this point in the evening, so they found themselves pretty much pressed up against one another as they danced. Morse wasn't complaining, but he did try and keep a hold on his self-control. It wasn't going too badly until Peter leaned in to say something in his ear. Another couple behind jostled him as he moved and Peter ended up in Morses arms instead, his face achingly close. They stared at one another, the words Peter had intended to say lost to them. Morse drew a shallow breath and thought about how he could get out of this, but then all of a sudden Peter's lips met his, and he was lost. 

He should've pulled away, made his excuses, made light of it. They could have blamed the crowd. But instead Morse found himself kissing Peter back, and it was everything he had never allowed himself to dream. He felt like he was burning up inside with his need to taste this wonderful human. He was drowning in the smell of cigarettes, cologne, and cheap whiskey. He needed to stop this. 

He pulled away and their eyes met. He was worried what he might see in Peter's. Regret, anger, disgust. He expected all of those. What he didn't expect was shock, plain and simple. Peter opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. 

"Peter? I-"

"Morse, what is up with your eyes? They... why aren't they blue? Your eyes should be blue!"

Morse was not too drunk to realise where he had gone wrong this time. He closed his eyes and took an uneven breath as he fought to regain control. When he opened them again they were blue once more, but it was too late. Peter had seen. He had seen his other, golden, eyes. He knew Morse was a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I love fluff. Even if my brain creates it. I so need Morse to be loved. He needs his Haven.


	3. The Fire of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just trying a bit of Jakes POV. He wanted to be heard. Hope it isn't too bad.

Peter Jakes was having a strange kind of a day. The discovery of what might, or might not, have been once a living, breathing, human reduced to a pile of ash by a dragon was far from an everyday occurrence. The Old Man, and their ‘witness’ seemed convinced that it was a dragon strike, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. Dragon strikes felt like a thing of fables and war. 

Morse was keeping strangely tight lipped about it though. Yes, he had spouted all that scientific assessment nonsense in the alley but he hadn’t let himself be drawn into an opinion, and that was distinctly odd for Morse. He had tried a few times during the day to draw him on the subject, all to no avail.

Then there had been that strange business in the Inspector’s office. He’d made a joke of it at the time, made light of it, suggested Morse was tired. In reality, he hadn’t seen someone half asleep on their feet; he had seen a man on the verge of collapse. He was all too familiar with the uncontrolled bite of panic. The way the simplest of things could cause a cascade of memories to come crashing down. How those thoughts could drown out all else until you were trapped by them, unable to breathe. 

What could have caused that in Morse? He seemed impervious to pretty much everything. Jakes heard the snide remarks thrown Morse’s way each and every day, had contributed a fair amount to that in the past, and seen how Morse shrugged it all off, acted like he was deaf to their words, and carried on regardless. Guilt rolled over him in an unexpected wave. He knew better now, but the patterns of their dance were too well trodden, and every now and then, the man’s odd behaviour would trigger him into an all too familiar barb. He tried not to be drawn into it, but the man was just so infuriating sometimes. 

Since Blenheim Vale, everything had changed. So many others would have torn him apart that day, looked down upon him, pitied him. Most others would have changed the way they treated him. Not Morse. Morse had looked at him that day and understood. Morse had offered him the chance to stand up, to help, but he hadn’t pushed him into it, and he had seen in his face that he understood when he couldn’t. Morse had treated him in exactly the same way he always had from that day forward. He hadn’t gone gossiping, or laughed, nor looked at him like he might break. No, Morse had carried on much as he always had, barring a slight reduction in the number of cutting comments he threw his way.

He lived with the shame he felt for his past every day. Now he added to that the shame he felt for not being able to help Morse more when he was landed in prison. He had gone to see him once, when he was eventually allowed visitors. He had seen the other side to that insufferable superiority that day. Seen how it was anything but superiority. With Morse it was all show. He put on this front of not needing anyone, of being self-sufficient, of not wanting people around him, to disguise the desperation for _something_ more that he endlessly bore. Jakes had seen that day how fragile Morse truly was. He had still tried to put on an act, but it was thin, strained, and he had seen right through it. He hadn’t blamed him for wanting nothing to do with them when he got out, but he had been glad when he came back.

The friendship that had grown between them since then had been unexpected. He had thought that just not tearing one another down would be enough, but then he found himself watching Morse, trying to understand him. He couldn’t figure him out, Morse was the one that was good at puzzles, not him. The more he watched, the more he was fascinated by the man, by the way he worked, thought, moved. Before he knew it, he had found himself completely taken with Morse’s strange beauty. Once he realised what was happening he had tried to stop it, but it was too late. When he closed his eyes, he could picture those angular features. 

The last thing Peter needed was to fall for a fellow officer. He had tried to go back to their old ways, deriding and ridiculing Morse’s words and actions, but it hurt too much when he saw that slight twitch of hurt in those serious features. Despite all his better instincts, he now only wanted to make Morse smile, not frown.

Certainly, he had not expected what had happened in the dragon bar. It had sent him back down that old road of poking at Morse’s feelings, even though he could see that the quiet man had been shaken up by their encounter with the dragon lady, Callista. Many wouldn’t have seen it. Thursday might, once upon a time, but perhaps not now, given the way he skulked and shouted. The trouble was, the elegant dragon woman’s flirting had thrown him off balance. Before, he might have played up to it, done his ladies’ man act, but honestly, she made him too nervous, and her evident intimacy with Morse made him jealous. 

He tried not to think how relieved he had felt when Morse had said they were just friends. It was ridiculous really, he knew the man had had relationships before, even been engaged once, but the thought of him with someone like _that_ had just been too much.

For the rest of the afternoon he had watched Morse as casually as he could, and had seen his deepening frown, seen how he almost flinched at the crude and callous remarks of his fellow officers. Peter couldn’t help but wonder why. Morse seemed like he was fairly equitable in how he treated everyone, of all kinds, but the way he was reacting to this dragon business was something else.

Once everyone else had left, leaving Morse to do his ‘five more minutes’ act, he set to trying to think of an excuse to cheer him up somehow. They hadn’t exactly socialised together, just the two of them, and there was no Strange around to use as an excuse to drag him to the pub. Morse caught on to his presence as usual, it really was creepy how the man could tell when he was around, so he had been forced to improvise. 

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. God knows how much alcohol later he was having some regrets. Heavens but Morse could drink. He had thought he could hold his liquor, but he had not had a chance to get any dinner between work and their evening out, so he was really quite drunk. It was taking more self control than he possessed not to flirt with his beautiful drinking companion. The only thing stopping him was the evident attention of quite a number of the other occupants of the club. This might well be a dragon club, but Morse was straight as far as he knew, and goodness only knew how he would react if Peter made some ill advised attempt to flirt with him. Still, they had got gradually closer, and closer in their booth seat as they drank, until they were almost touching. 

Dancing was the very last thing he had expected Morse to suggest when he had leaned in to talk over the music. He hadn’t exactly agreed, but when Morse had taken his hand all rational objections had fled from his mind and he had ended up meekly following him. 

Morse was inexplicably good at dancing considering the man’s apparent lack of knowledge of any music from this century. Not that he was objecting of course. Nor was he going to complain that the tight crowd made sure that they were pressed pretty closely together. Every now and then they would make eye contact, and Morse would give him a small, lopsided, smile that near melted his heart. 

He needed to keep some focus. He had meant to lean in and make some inane comment about remembering their purpose in the club but then the people behind him had shifted and he had stumbled forwards. He nearly lost his balance but Morse had caught him.  
The feel of those delicate hands on his arms, the press of his body against Morse’s, the way their noses almost touched, it was all too much. He stared into those distant blue eyes for a long moment, then his self control snapped and he found himself kissing him. He would’ve stepped away, blamed it on the crowd and the alcohol, and trusted to the kindness he knew was deeply ingrained in Morse to go along with the lie, but then Morse was kissing him back.

For one glorious minute the world was simple, he was in the arms of the man he cared for, and he was kissing those wonderfully expressive lips. Then Morse pulled away. He panicked for a moment. Was it a drunken mistake? No, those golden eyes told him that Morse had wanted this. 

Wait… golden? 

His heart stuttered. Morse’s eyes were like a dragon’s… surely that couldn’t be right?!

"Peter? I-" Morse started, concern was in his voice, and lined his face.

"Morse, what is up with your eyes? They... why aren't they blue? Your eyes should be blue!" He couldn’t keep the panic down. It was reflected on Morse’s face for a moment, and then he closed his eyes. When he opened them again they were their usual blue. The blue he knew and loved so well. He was drunk, yes, but he hadn’t imagined the change. Morse’s eyes had been a pure, brilliant, gold. Morse began to say something but he couldn’t take it in. 

He turned and fled, barging his way out of the room as as fast as possible.

~~~~~ 

“Peter -” They were still pressed so close together, the people around them oblivious to what was unfolding between them. Morse watched as Peter’s face hardened. He should have known better than to ever get close to someone. In the end, everyone he loved always left him. “Please, just let me explain!” Then Peter pulled free of his grip and began to shove his way hastily through the crowd towards the exit. He stood there, watching him go, but when he reached the exit he realised the urgency of his need to talk to Jakes before he did anything rash.

He quickly grabbed their coats from the booth then followed Peter’s path, stumbling out onto the cold street. Peter stood a short way down the street, hands shoved into his pockets, staring at his shoes. There weren’t many people about, the club was just outside the centre of town, but a few small groups were walking home from the various pubs and clubs to their colleges. He eyed them warily then made his way over to where his friend stood.

“Peter-”

“I don’t want to talk to you, Morse.” Peter’s voice was as icy as the air around them, he was shivering in the cold. Morse held out Peter’s coat and he took it, shrugging it on quickly. He held onto his own. He ought to put it on but he needed something to keep his hands curled into.

“Peter, please just let me explain-”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses! YOU LIED!” Peter shouted at him. He flinched away from the anger in his voice. “You let me think you were… you… you were my friend! How can you be my friend and keep that sort of thing from me? How could you _kiss_ me, knowing that it was all one big LIE!” 

“It wasn’t a lie, please, I was just… scared… its not easy… People, they hate us.”

“So you thought it was better for _you_ to keep it from me? Got what you wanted did you, eh? How DARE you! How _dare_ you manipulate me like that?”

“I wasn’t manipulating you, honesty, I- I care for you Peter! I would never want to hurt you!” He tried to keep his voice low, tried to avoid the attention of other people on the street.

“You’re a bloody DRAGON! You don’t _care_ for anyone but yourself!” The words echoed in the still of the night, and lodged themselves deep within his heart. He could see some regret on Jakes’ face. He had heard it all before and shrugged it off, but he never wanted to hear it said with that much hate ever again. 

Jakes turned away and began trudging up the street. 

Morse didn’t follow him.

~~~~~ 

Morse watched Jakes walking away. It felt like shards of ice had worked their way into his heart. He was really drunk, but nowhere near drunk enough. He staggered back into the club and spent the next half hour working his way through several glasses cheap whiskey. No one bothered him. It was clear to any dragon in the place that he was not in a good place. Eventually the bartender cut him off, quietly and firmly.

By the time he left the club again the other bars and clubs in town had begun to kick out and he was not all that steady on his feet. His normally heightened senses were dulled by all the alcohol in his system, so he didn’t notice a group of three men step out of the shadows of an alley and begin following him. 

He had made it half way to the nearest bus stop when he became aware of the presence of the group behind him. He stumbled to a stop to see if they carried on past. Two of the men stepped to either side of him and he knew he was in trouble. They were much more well built than him, and seemed significantly more sober.

The first blow came from the one behind him. He spun round and tried to defend himself but it was futile. The three men set upon him without a word. He struck out wildly, and got in a few punches, before the largest of the three thugs grabbed and held him as the other two punched and kicked at him. The alcohol numbed him slightly but still the pain was overwhelming. 

“Please! Stop! Why...” a punch to his gut took the wind from him and he was left gasping.

“Bloody dragon scum!” He heard the largest of the three mutter in his ear before letting him go. He dropped to the ground, trying desperately to drag some air into his burning lungs. “Deserve all you get!” He felt a foot collide with his stomach and curled into a ball, trying to protect his head. They didn’t stop. Kick, after kick, was landed upon any part of his body they could get at. He could smell blood, it was hard to breathe, and he couldn’t see. The pain was excruciating. He could hear a distant wailing like a siren, then a blow landed on his head and he knew nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh poor Morse. I'm sorry. I am. But still. Things will get better. Sometime...


	4. Blood and Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a plan for this one. The boys did not co-operate. I can only apologise.

He came to in a pool of blood. The sound he had taken to be a siren had stopped, as had the endless blows from the three thugs. Someone was crouched beside him and gently shaking his shoulder. _Peter._

“Endeavour? Endeavour!” A familiar voice spoke urgently. He groaned, and tried to uncurl. Everything hurt. His hands were shaking, and his head felt ready to explode. “Endeavour, we really need to get out of here. Now.” He managed to turn his head to the voice and was met by a pair of bright amber eyes in the darkness. _Not Peter. Peter didn’t come back._ Callista appeared agitated. She looked from him, to the street around them, and back. “I managed to scare those gits off by screaming at them and throwing a bit of fire, but I really don’t think I could take them on properly. If they come back, I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

“I think… I think I might need a doctor.” He managed. It hurt to breathe. The cold night air hit the back of his throat and he coughed violently. 

“You need to sober up, get up, and get out of here, is what you need.” The irritation in Callista’s voice was tempered by fear. He knew he ought to feel something other than physical pain but he was numb. It was all so pointless. “Endeavour! Please!”

He rolled over and then struggled to his hands and knees. Callista reached around and helped him up. His legs nearly gave out as he got to standing but she managed to manoeuvre and get a better grip to keep him upright. He swayed in her hold and tried to take stock of his injuries. He ached all over but nothing felt broken so far as he could tell. Not that he was sure he would be able to tell through the fog of alcohol and probable concussion. They made slow, limping, progress down the street. 

“What were you doing, following me?” He asked Callista. She shot him a disgusted look.

“I wasn’t following you. I was keeping an eye out around the area. Looking for someone else, actually.” She shifted her arms around his back and Morse cried out as a fresh wave of pain rolled over him. “You were damn lucky I came by when I did though. I think they really would have killed you.”

“Who… who were you looking for?”

“Shut up and focus on walking straight.”

“You think either of us can do anything straight?” He half laughed at his joke, setting off another coughing fit, and collapsing against a wall. Callista struggled to get him back walking. “Where’s your friend then? Since when would you go away on your own?”

“Are you seriously questioning me right now? I saved your life. I could leave you right here, in the street, is that what you want? Or shall we get to my car, and get out of here?” She looked at him with an intensity he remembered clearly from his youth. A curl of fire escaped her lips. He nodded and together they continued round the corner to Callista’s car.

~~~~~~

Jakes had the worst hangover he had known in a very long time. He had very little recollection of how he had got home. His memory of events before that were all too vivid. He wanted to forget the whole damn day.

OK, maybe not the _whole_ day. He was undecided if he wanted to forget _that_ kiss. He had dreamed of kissing that beautiful face for some time now and it really had been wonderful, but to find out the lie underneath it all… It stung. 

The trouble was, now he’d had time to think about it, he really didn’t have a lot to justify his actions. Morse hadn’t told anyone, so it wasn’t like he had lied to him specifically. Moreover, he had lied to all of his colleagues about his own past for years. They also hadn’t exactly spent any social time together so Morse hadn’t even had a chance to tell him. Maybe he would have in time – if he hadn’t kissed him and brought it all out. The final nail in that particular coffin was that he hadn’t even given the man a chance to explain. He had just hurled unfair abuse at him in the street and then buggered off home. 

Dammit. He really needed to talk to Morse. _Where was he?!_ Yes, he was most likely just as hungover as him, but Morse was almost never late. He checked his watch one last time and then set off to collect the Inspector in his place.

His guilt ate away at him the whole drive over to the Thursdays'. The Old Man raised his eyebrows when he opened the door to find Jakes on his doorstep. “No Morse?” Jakes shrugged and made his way back to the car. Thursday climbed in after him, “Debryn wants to see us, so we’re headed to the morgue.” Peter closed his eyes briefly. The last thing he wanted this morning was to go to that creepy place. He also wanted to get back to the station so he could be there when Morse finally arrived in. Maybe he was sleeping it off. “Sergeant Jakes!” His eyes flew open to see a rather irate Thursday glaring at him. “Keeping you up are we?”

“Sorry, Sir.” He didn’t make his excuses. He didn’t want to talk about last night.

~~~~~~

Morse awoke with what at first felt like the worst hangover of his life. Then he tried to move and his body announced the litany of injuries he had received the previous night. He opened his eyes to an unknown room. It looked like a hotel room. Where was he? He couldn’t remember anything after getting into Callista’s car.

He gently turned his head from side to side. The room was utterly nondescript. There was a fire notice on the door. Definitely a hotel. His attention was drawn to a piece of paper left on the pillow next to his. Tentatively he lifted his arm to retrieve it. He winced at the pain in his chest and side. He opened the note out with shaking hands.

_My Darling Endeavour,_

_I didn’t know where you lived, and you weren’t making much sense, so I got you a hotel room next to mine. Please knock on the connecting door when you wake. I will check on you a few times through the night to make sure you don’t do anything silly like dying. You should probably see a doctor, but I guessed you probably wouldn’t want to have to explain how you came to get beaten, plus I know your love of hospitals, so I’ll leave that choice to you._

_Callista  
x_

There was no daylight filtering in around the curtains so he guessed it must still be early. He looked at his watch but it had been damaged in the altercation, the glass fractured, the hands no longer moving. 

Slowly he dragged himself to a seated position. His bruised muscles had seized while he slept. He needed to get moving, back to his own basement flat. The walk to the bathroom took a long time. He leaned heavily on the wall of the small room as he inched his way around. Once into the bathroom he sat down heavily on the edge of the bath, breathing hard. He had to admit that he was in a really bad way.

An hour or so later, after a bath to try and ease his muscles and clean out the various cuts and grazes, he sat down on the hotel bed and took stock of his situation. His face was miraculously free of injury but for a large cut above his eye. Below that, things got worse. The rest of his body was a sea of bruises. His hands were grazed and there were a few shallow cuts to the wrist and arm that had been against the ground when he had been curled up. One ankle hurt to put weight on, and it hurt to breathe too deeply. Oh, and his head felt like someone had been kicking it, which could either be down to the hangover, or the fact that someone really had been kicking it. It looked worse than it was, he decided. 

Next he had to decide what to do. Light was beginning to make its way in to the room around the thick curtains. He needed to get to work. They had a case on. One that he really needed to be working on. He thought of seeing Peter, and his heart grew even colder. 

He hadn’t been as happy in a very long time as he had when Peter had kissed him. In fact he couldn’t recall the last time he had been that happy. But then he had gone, and then he had said _those_ things, and then he had walked off and left him to be beaten to a pulp by people that hated him for what he was. Peter hated him for what he was. Maybe Peter was informing the station even now of his deception. Maybe he didn’t have a job to get to…

Morse tried to clear his mind of those thoughts. They were useless. They would get him nowhere. Better to just hope nothing ever came of it all. Put on his granite face, do his job, go back to the place he was living, and stop pointlessly hoping for something more, because he was never going to have it. He took a slow breath and let the cold shut him off from the world of feeling, and caring.

In the end he didn’t knock on Callista’s door. He simply let himself out and quietly slid the room key under the door to the room she was staying in. 

The hotel, it turned out, was not so far from where he was living, so he walked home through the frosty morning. The walk helped to loosen up his limbs, but the pain in his chest was all the worse in the cutting air, and he couldn’t help but limp. He would have gone directly to the station but he needed to change because the suit he was wearing was crumpled and bloodstained. Once he was changed he took the bus over to the station and got in significantly late. His fears over Jakes exposing him seemed to be unfounded. No one said anything to him outside of the usual. 

There was a message on his desk from another officer stating that he was requested at the morgue and that Jakes had gone to pick up Thursday. He wanted to go back to bed and sleep, but instead he dragged himself back up and made his way back out into the cold to make the painful journey to the morgue.

~~~~~~

The drive to the morgue was painfully slow. Peter found that it was hard work staying focussed on the road when his mind was evenly split between his desire to crawl back into bed, and his need to find and talk to Morse.

Debryn waved them into his office rather than the general open area of the morgue, when the arrived. He had cleared a large section of floor and laid out a white sheet. Upon it were spread out the remains they had found the previous day. Jakes stared at them uncomfortably. Yesterday he had made a joke about how he couldn’t have made the kind of remarks he had to Morse and live to tell the tale if the man had been a dragon. Just hours later he had said far worse to his face and all that had happened had been that Morse had closed off from him. He had walked away very much unscathed in a physical sense, but torn to pieces inside.

The door opened again behind them and someone slipped into the room with them. Peter glanced around to see who it was. His stomach sank and all of a sudden the ground felt unstable. Morse looked _terrible_. He was pale and there was a deep cut above his eye. _How had that happened?!_ Morse kept his hands firmly behind his back, and stood kind of strangely, as if he was favouring his left side. He deliberately looked to the doctor and the Inspector, and avoided meeting Jakes’ own horrified gaze.

Debryn raised his eyebrows, and Thursday sighed. “Christ, Morse, what have you been up to this time?”

“Sorry I’m late, Sir. I had a bit of a fall.” 

“Stop on after, Morse, and I’ll see to that cut better than you have,” Debryn ordered. “Right, shall we crack on?” 

Debryn droned on for some time about volumes and qualities of ash. Something about the volume indicating a female, or a small male, but that it was so fine some could have blown away. All was consistent with the purity and grain of ash that a dragon could produce. Other particles he had seen the day before were most likely general detritus that had been on the ground before. 

Jakes took it in as best he could, but his attention kept being drawn back to Morse. He was far too pale, even for Morse. A couple of times he was sure he swayed slightly. Then he watched as he edged back slightly to lean against the office wall. _What the hell was wrong with him?_ He wanted to reach out, to check him over, to hold him in his arms and tell him how sorry he was for how he had behaved… 

The doctor was talking about the relevance of the colour of some lump of glass or other when he saw Morse’s eyes roll back. Without thinking he was across the small office in a couple of strides - just in time to catch Morse as he collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pleasssse don't kill me! I can't be held responsible for the bad life choices of that damn disaster magnet.


	5. Now Thaws This Lonely Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and you shall receive!

Morse was out cold, quite literally. Jakes wasn’t sure what he had expected when he had caught him, but it wasn’t this. Morse was icy cold to the touch, and he was worryingly light. It hadn’t taken much effort to stop his fall. How thin was he? Morse’s clothing hung loose and dishevelled so often that he hadn’t realised how little there was to him.

“Good catch, Sergeant.” Debryn was making his way around the sheet and ashes to where he now stood.

Thursday sighed and watched on. “What has the fool done to himself this time do we think?”

“If he fell, and knocked his head, then probably concussion. Hopefully that’s all there is to it, but I’d better make sure.” He looked to Jakes, who was now supporting the unconscious Morse against him. “Do you think you could carry him to a bed? We don’t tend to keep wheelchairs and the like down here.” Peter had to suppress a sudden wave of embarrassment at the thought of _carrying Morse to a bed._

He nodded, and got an arm under Morse’s legs to lift him. Although it made things easier carrying him, it worried him how light he was. If Morse ever spoke to him again, Peter vowed he would make sure he had a word with him about actually having at least one meal a day. He couldn’t remember if he had ever actually seen the man eat. Was that a dragon thing maybe? They really needed to talk. He held Morse close to his body, his heart beating faster than was comfortable, and followed the doctor out of his office and into the mortuary.

The doctor pulled an unmade trolley bed over from near the entrance. Peter gently set Morse down upon it. He stirred, and gave a small moan as he shifted, his eyes opened, their usual vivid blue. Peter let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Morse?”

Morse’s face contorted as he tried to sit up, “Jakes?” He tried not to let it hurt that Morse had gone back to calling him by his surname. 

“You gave us a fright there, Morse.” Debryn smiled at Morse “Nothing out of the usual for you, but still, I’d really rather not be patching you up so often. Now if you could stop trying to knock yourself out again and lie back, I’ll take a look at your head.”

“What happened this time?” Thursday now stood at the end of the bed, a deep frown creasing his features.

“Just a fall, Sir. Tripped, fell a few steps. Perils of a basement flat on an icy night.” He gave a wry, apologetic, smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. Those remained cold and unfeeling. Peter wanted to believe him, but for some reason he didn’t.

“Let me guess, a good quantity of booze played a significant part in how easy it was to walk down a short flight of steps?” Morse didn’t answer the Inspector. “Thought so. Right then. We need to crack on with this case. Was there anything more you needed to pass on about our victim Doctor?”

Debryn looked up from his inspection of Morse’s head wound, “not at this juncture, Inspector, but I’ll be sure to let you know if I think of anything else.”

“We’ll leave you to deal with Morse then. Jakes.” He knew it was an instruction for him to come along but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Morse in his current state.

“If you don’t need me immediately, Sir, I thought I might stay on. Morse isn’t exactly fit to drive right now – I should probably get him back home for the day.” He tried to look put upon, to keep playing the role Thursday expected of him in relation to Morse. A sudden, evident, concern for the other man would look odd, given their history.

“Fair point. See to it I don’t see him in the station until at least tomorrow.” The Inspector fixed Morse with a glare that told him exactly how things would go if he ignored that last. “Mind how you go.” He turned and left the three of them in the mortuary.

“I don’t need a nursemaid.” He heard Morse mutter. The Doctor gave a snort of derision, and rolled his eyes. 

“You telling me you _are_ fit to drive then?” He demanded.

“I could’ve taken the bus.”

Jakes ignored that. He probably could have taken the bus. He wasn’t going to allow it though. Debryn had finished cleaning and dressing Morse’s cut to his head and had moved on to checking his responses.

“Hmm… No sign of concussion, as such. I’m going to have to take a look at you, see if you’ve managed to do yourself any more damage.”

“I’m fine.”

“And I’m the queen. Now up. Slowly, mind you. Don’t want you passing out on us again.” 

Morse sat up slowly. He tried to hide it but he flinched several times as he moved to sit and swing his legs over the edge of the bed. He deliberately moved so he was facing away from Jakes. Debryn took one of Morse’s hands. It was then Peter noticed the grazes on them. He tried to keep his face impassive, to hold on to his mask of disdain, but it was hard. He _needed_ to know what had happened.

“Look, Morse, we can either do this the easy way, or the hard.” Debryn let go of Morse’s hand and crossed his arms. 

“What’s the easy way?”

“You tell me where you’re injured, and I treat it if I can, or refer you if I can’t.”

“And the hard?”

“I give you a full examination, checking you over thoroughly, thus discovering everything you’re not telling me about, and much more painfully I must add.”

Morse sighed, and shifted to take off his jacket. He stopped part way through the action and looked over to Peter. “A little privacy perhaps?” His tone was cold, bitterly so. It felt like he had been doused in icy water. Morse didn’t want him there. He thought about arguing but couldn’t think of one good reason for needing to stay. 

“I’ll be outside.” He turned abruptly and quickly made his way to the corridor outside the mortuary.

~~~~~~

Morse tried to hold onto his emotions, but it was getting harder and harder. For years he had repressed everything he could. Feelings only led to pain and suffering for all involved. His feelings put everyone at risk. He wouldn’t risk hurting anyone if his emotions got the better of him.

Until recently he had been good at it. Then he had gone and fallen for Peter. Still he had kept a hold, kept his dragon side firmly subdued, until yesterday. The events of the last two days were more than he could bear. He needed to get away, to process things, to fly. It wasn’t possible of course. He could never truly be himself. Hiding was his only option. So he would freeze up, forever lacking what he needed to really _live_ , or burn up in his own anger at it all.

He didn’t watch Peter leave the mortuary, didn’t want to think about what it meant that he had gone without so much as a single protest. The door closed behind him and he set to continuing the slow process of removing his jacket and shirt. He heard Debryn’s sharp intake of breath at the bruises already forming over his body.

“Those stairs had arms and legs then?” He looked up and met the other man’s gaze. Why did Debryn always see straight through him?

“I might have got into a little bit of an altercation.”

“A little bit of a- Christ, Morse, you look like someone, or several someones should I say, tried to beat you to death!” He didn’t want to hear the concern in Debryn’s voice. It hurt. It made him want to cry, and to rage, and to scream about the whole damn awful situation. He wanted to get out of here. “I take it you’ll do your usual and refuse if I try to send you upstairs to someone more acquainted with treating the living” Morse looked away. “Fine. Then in that case, I’m going to need you to take off your trousers and vest too, and do a proper examination.”

Ten minutes, and a lifetimes worth of Debryn’s contempt for his ability to look after his body, later the Doctor finally pronounced that he was most likely not in any mortal danger. Severe bruising, particularly to the ribs, back, wrist, and ankle, that would make it harder to breathe, and to walk, for a week or two, and some minor cuts and bruises. He was ‘bloody lucky’ not to have had anything broken or fractured. Debryn cleaned and dressed the cuts that needed it, and applied support bandages for his wrist and ankle, but advised that only time could heal the rest. He wondered if his heart would ever heal... 

He endured the process in silence, only answering Debryn’s medical questions, and avoiding answering anything about what had happened. He had put his trousers back on, and was reaching for his vest when Debryn placed a hand on his arm. 

“You don’t have to do everything alone, you know. There are plenty of people who care about you. If you ever want to talk...”

He didn’t have a chance to deal with the feelings that Debryn’s words had provoked because it was at that moment that Peter decided to come marching back in to the room. 

“Are you two nearly done? I do need to get back to this case sometime toda-” He broke off as he took in the sight before him. Morse, covered in bruises and bandages. And Debryn, standing close by, a hand on his arm. Jakes was adept at hiding his feelings, but Morse saw all too clearly the flash of panic, and pain. He broke the frozen moment by pulling his arm away from Debryn and snatching up his shirt. He began to finish dressing hurriedly. He waited for some cutting remark from Jakes, but none came. 

Debryn sighed. “What we were talking about, Morse – I meant it. You know where to find me.” With that he headed back to his office, closing the door firmly behind him. 

Morse continued buttoning his shirt in the deathly silence. Why wasn’t Peter saying anything? He risked a glance over to the other man as he worked to slowly pull on his jacket. Peter was staring at him with an intensity that scared him. He wondered if there was a way to get out of the lift home Jakes seemed to feel he needed. He didn’t trust himself alone with Peter. He didn’t trust himself with anyone right now.

They walked to the car Morse had checked out from the station for the drive over. The silence on the slow journey was painful. His heart ached, heavy with all the unspoken words between them, and broken from the ones already said. He handed over the keys to Jakes.

“You take the car back. I’ll take the bus. Don’t want to hold you up.”

“Get in the car, Morse.”

“Look, its fine. I know you don’t really want to be around me. I don’t blame you. Let’s not make this any worse than it is.”

“Morse, _please_ get in the car. I need… I need to talk to you. Now.” Peter’s face slipped from its usual disinterested mask, and for a moment Morse could see the depth of emotion that lurked beneath the surface of the man. It was foolishness he knew, but he couldn’t deny Peter this. Not when he looked that way at him. He went around the car and got in the passenger side. 

They sat in silence for some time. Morse closed his eyes and tried to keep his breathing even, controlled, measured. When he opened them he found Peter watching him. 

“Where are we going then?” Peter asked. _He doesn’t even know where I live._ he realised. All that had passed between them in the last 24 hours, and they didn’t know each others respective addresses, let alone anything more personal, about each other. Each held the others darkest secret over the other, yet they didn’t know the most basic of everyday details. He gave his address, and turned to stare out the window as Peter began driving.

“What happened?” The question cut through him. What _had_ happened? How had they got to this?

“Its fine.” He lied.

“It is not bloody _fine_ Morse! You look like… you look as though someone tried to kill you. Please tell me that isn’t the case!”

“I told you, I fell down the stairs.”

“Stairs don’t leave bruises the shape of hands on your arms.” Peter’s voice broke as he spoke. 

“Why ask what happened if you don’t want to know?” He bit back, angrily.

“I _do_ want to know. I _need_ to know, Morse.”

“Fine. You want to know what happened? You! That’s what happened! Screaming at me in the street. Telling the whole world what I am. And of course, some of them decided to take matters into their own hands, and feet, and bloody well try to beat me into the next world!” The words flew from him before he could think better of them. He was seething with anger, but not at Peter Jakes. He was angry at the men who had beaten him because of what he was. He was angry that he couldn’t defend himself. He was angry that if he had, society would have blamed him for it. He was angry that he had to hide, but also that he was what he was. Mostly he hated himself. He looked out of the window at the cold, grey, weather and tried to let it soak back into his heart. Better to freeze than burn.

“Morse… I...” The car pulled over in a side street. “I’m so sorry… I… I should never have said what I did, and I wish I could take that back, but I can’t. People… they’ve lied to me before. So it came as a shock when I realised…” He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Please look at me Morse!” He couldn’t bring himself to turn and look at the man that was in the process of breaking his heart. “This is… this is all my fault. I should have been there. I should never have walked away. I can’t believe I did that. _I should have been there to protect you! _”__

__At that Morse finally couldn’t resist it any more and turned to look at Peter. His face was pained and his eyes - _was he crying?_ No, it must be a trick of the light._ _

__“None of this is your fault. None. I brought this on myself as always.” His voice shook with the effort it was taking to control his feelings._ _

__“No. Don’t you _dare_ go blaming yourself! I should have been there! I...” Peter broke off and reached across the space between them. Before Morse knew what was happening Peter had gently wrapped his arms around him and rested his head on his shoulder. _ _

__His last barriers fell. He melted into Peter’s arms, tears finally falling from bright golden eyes._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, he really needed that hug. Now I think I need a hug. What am I even doing with this?!


	6. Adrift in a Haze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I wasn't quite finished on this yesterday, and thought I'd add a little today to wrap it up. Then it just sort of grew. I thought about splitting it as it is longer than my usual but it worked better together I think.

Nothing could have prepared Morse for the way he felt when Peter held him. His senses were completely overwhelmed. Somehow, this felt more intimate than the kiss they had shared the previous night. He had been drunk then (and was still very much hungover as a result) and had acted on impulse when he had kissed Peter back. He hadn’t had sufficient time, or sobriety, to think about or rationalise his actions. This time, he had seen what was coming, understood, and could have turned away, stopped it. He knew he should, knew that nothing good could come of this. Yet he still found himself moving closer to Peter and wrapping his own arms around him. 

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that before he broke away. Morse drank in the wonderfully familiar scent of his Peter, and the beautifully new feeling of his arms, his body, his face against his shoulder. Once he had regained control of himself enough to stop his silent tears, and change his eyes back to human, he leaned back to his seat and out of the embrace. The space left between them felt horribly cold. 

Peter also seemed to have regained some level of self-control. He no longer looked like he was crying, or like he was going to start shouting at him again. He was staring down at his hands and seemed to be considering what to say next.

“It really is ok, Peter. I honestly don’t blame you for what happened. Perhaps if we’d had a chance to talk before… I don’t know. I should have done things differently, never dragged you into the mess that is my life.” Peter frowned and looked up from his hands.

“And what if I _want_ to be a part of it? What if I want to be a part of your life?”

“You really think that would work?” Morse asked. He had felt a lot better for finally clearing the air between them, and for crying. Peter apologising, saying he had reacted from shock, that he didn’t mean those things, it all meant a lot to him. Releasing some of the fear and sadness he carried every day had also helped to make him feel a bit less like he was perpetually living on a knife edge, always just about to drown in ice or fire. None of that changed their reality though. How could he ever have what he wanted? He knew that was impossible.

“I think we should talk.” Jakes spoke with a quiet assurance that he couldn’t really argue with. They did need to talk.

“You need to get back to the office.”

“I do, but I’ll drop you back first.” Peter looked to him once more, then set the car going again. “Could I maybe come around later? Once we’re done for the day.” He tried to ignore the hope he could hear in Peter’s voice, tried to ignore the memory of how it had felt to be held by someone that claimed to care about him.

“I guess we do need to talk.”

“OK, well… I’ll give you a call before I leave.” They drove in silence for a few minutes until Peter pulled up in front of his basement flat. “This your place?” Morse nodded and went to get out of the car. “Morse-” He looked back at Peter, he had the strangest look on his face. Before he realised what was happening Peter had leaned across the space between them and placed a brief kiss on his lips. He stared in confusion at Peter, who only smiled at him. “Just in case it doesn’t go so well tonight, the talking. Something good to remember all this by.”

He was lost for words, so instead he simply turned and hauled himself out of the car. He watched as Peter raised his hand in farewell, and then turned to make his way into his cold, lonely, flat. The painkillers Debryn had given him were kicking in, and the bandaging to his wrist and ankle helped, but it was still hard to make his way down the steps, and through his front door. He felt numb. Although Peter had said he would come by that evening, he felt as though he had just bid farewell to the one point of light in his life. He settled himself in the living room with a record and let the soothing waves of sound ease away some of his fears. Soon he was fast asleep.

~~~~~~

The rest of the day in the office was one long drag for Peter. The ‘autopsy’ told them next to nothing, except that they had been right that it was a dragon strike, and no one new had been reported missing. They had hoped that today something would come in, but with nothing much to go on they were hindered from doing pretty much anything more. Peter checked his watch countless times and worked his way through an entire pack of cigarettes.

Around 4.30 Thursday called him in to the office. He could tell that he had been agitated since he had got back from dropping off Morse. Thursday paced and his coughing could be heard out in the main offices. Jakes had avoided going in before because he was never sure how the Old Man would react when he was in a mood like this. Now he stood before him as he paced behind his desk and he was certain he should have found an excuse to get out the door earlier so as to have avoided this meeting.

“We’re two days in and we’ve got less than zero to go on. We need to get back out there and question some dragons. Turn over some stones. See what comes scuttling out.”

“Isn’t that going to be kind of hard if we can’t tell them what this is about, Sir?” 

Thursday shot him an aggrieved look. “Get creative. We need something. I need this all neatly wrapped up before it gets out there.”

“Where should I go?” 

“You’ve canvassed that pub Morse knew about yesterday. What about the club? Fancy some overtime? We could head over tonight.” His stomach sank. There was no way the regulars in that club wouldn’t recognise him. Thursday stopped pacing and fixed him with an assessing look. He hoped he wasn’t as easy to read right now as he feared.

“I… Morse and I that is… we went over last night already.” He tried not to stutter in his panic.

Thursday’s eyebrows rose, “and why haven’t I seen a report about this?” 

“We… um… didn’t exactly get anything there. I think we stood out too much from… from the regulars if you get my meaning.” 

“That would make sense. Two humans in a dragon club. That still doesn’t answer why you’ve not written it up.”

“Morse was going to do it, but then he was late, and then at the hospital… well, yeah, I sort of forgot to do it since he wasn’t in.” He kept his hands firmly in his pockets to hide how they shook. He really wanted a cigarette.

Thursday sighed and looked at the paperwork spread across his desk. “I really don’t want this getting out before we’ve got the culprit here, behind bars. The kick back will be bad whatever happens, but if we’ve not got the one responsible it will make it even harder to get the bigots in society not to blame dragons in general.” 

For the first time since it had happened Jakes thought about the actual people that had set upon Morse. Dread and anger gripped him. Those men, those bigoted brutes, hadn’t needed any other reason than that they believed him to be a dragon to attack someone as gentle as Morse. He wanted to track them down right now and show them exactly what he thought of them. _’Some of them’_ Morse had said, just exactly how many had attacked a defenceless man? His hands formed fists in his pockets. He needed to get Morse to report this, to see them dealt justice, or at least just give him enough to go on so he could deal out his own upon them.

“Sergeant Jakes?” Thursday was watching him intently. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry, Sir, I was just thinking…” He tried to come up with something plausible when it hit him, “what if there have been other attacks?”

“I think we would have heard if there had been any other dragon strikes.”

“Only if they were somewhere people could hear about it, only if they were somewhere the ashes would be found.” His stomach turned at the idea that there could be others, but if there were then they needed to go back over the list of missing persons.

“Dragon strikes are damn rare, Sergeant. What on earth would make you think there could be more?”

“I… honestly don’t know, Sir. There might not be any. I just… if they were capable of it once, then why not twice, or more?” He really had nothing to base this all on, and he knew it would make things worse, but they needed to ask the question if it got the killer caught.

The Inspector swore and resumed his pacing. “Fine. Check it out.” Peter took that as a dismissal and turned to leave. “Hold up a minute there, Jakes.” He turned back to face Thursday again. “I want that report on the club written up – before you go please.” 

“Of course, Sir.” He tried to fight back his disappointment. If he had to work on a report that was to include a good amount of careful avoidance of the truth it would take him quite a while. He wasn’t going to get to Morse until later than he had hoped.

As if the Inspector had read the name in his thoughts he asked, “how was Morse earlier? Concussion was it?”

“The Doc’ said a few really bad cuts and bruises, but no concussion,” he lied.

“So you think he’ll be well enough to be back in tomorrow?”

“I think he’ll be in whether or not that’s the case.”

Thursday sighed. “I’ll pop by and see him after I clock off. Ought to check the lad has had at least one square meal today.” Jakes struggled with even greater disappointment. He would have to wait until later to go round if Thursday went to see him, but he couldn’t think of any reason for him not to. Thursday fixed him with a glare “He’s bad with alcohol, you do know that right?” It seemed like today was going to be one of those days where guilt ate away at him from all sides. He nodded to the Inspector. “Right. Then I don’t want to see you _ever_ letting him get so drunk again while on a case that he falls down his own stairs. You’re the senior officer; act like it. You should see your subordinates right.” Once again he nodded. He knew it all too well. He had failed Morse in so many ways last night. He wouldn’t do that again.

Once back at his desk he drew a deep breath and tried to get a grip. It didn’t work. He tried to call Morse to let him know that Inspector Thursday would be coming by to see him and that he would be late. There was no answer. His mind conjured up images of Morse lying on his floor, passed out from some previously undiagnosed injury. He fished in his pockets for cigarettes he had already smoked, and swore when he remembered. The other officers eyed him warily. He glared back at them, then dragged over the typewriter and began to try and write up a report about their dragon club visit that didn’t include him 1. kissing Morse 2. screaming awful slurs at Morse in the street, or (and by far the worst) 3. storming off and leaving Morse to be beaten half to death by some thugs who only knew what he was because of point two.

~~~~~~

Morse woke to the sound of a phone ringing. He couldn’t remember where he was for a moment. His eyes opened and took in his own sitting room. Why was he here? _The phone was ringing!_ He shot out of the chair rapidly and went to dive across the room to answer it – only to be brought up short by the shooting pain in his ankle. His leg buckled under him and he crashed to the floor.

He lay there for a minute, trying to regain his breath, memories slowly filtering back to him. The phone stopped ringing. It was probably Jakes, telling him he was on his way over. He ought to make an effort to make the place look a bit less inhospitable, but right then he wasn’t sure he wanted to get up off the floor.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He had to think about what he was going to say to Peter. He needed to be prepared. The temptation to be drawn in to something with the man was dangerous. Earlier, when he had held him, Peter Jakes had felt like home, _like Haven_. He couldn’t risk getting that wrong again.

He had thought he had found Haven several times before. Susan had made him believe it was possible when he had all but given up. He had not felt Haven since _that_ day, and he thought he had found it again with her. Then she found out what he was, and promptly left him, and he had been broken once more. If it hadn’t been for his Hoarde, for the joy and freedom he found in opera and music, then he might have died. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had nearly died in his teens. His father’s house was no home. It was very far from Haven. Gwen had known what he was, and hated him for it. That day he first heard Rosalind Calloway’s voice… He had been so far from hope then, so far from actually _living._ If he had not heard her voice that day he had no doubt that he would not have been able to carry on.

After Susan, there had been others. In the Signals there had been James… but he hadn’t been free to be with him. Then, more recently, Monica had given him a fleeting sense of that feeling once more. Only for it to be ripped away and for him to land in prison.

Even the thought of those four cold walls of his cell was enough to bring back the hopelessness he had felt there. No Hoarde to find solace in, no Haven to make him feel safe, and loved. Then Peter had visited him, and for the first time in weeks he had felt something. He had felt hope. He wouldn’t have made it through without that. He smiled to himself, Peter had saved his life and he didn’t even know.

Gradually he got up from the floor, set another record playing, and made himself a sandwich and a cup of tea. The bread looked past its best, but it would have to do, and there was no milk for his tea. He settled back in the armchair and slowly chewed the slightly tangy bread and cheese. The thoughts of Haven would not let him alone. He hadn’t felt it since he was a child. Other dragons could sense that in him, and pitied him for it. It was understandable. He felt the same way on the very rare occasion he crossed paths with a dragon that was lacking one or the other of their vital elements. 

Once he had finished his penicillin sandwich he began to think about whether he could make his flat look any better before Peter arrived. He looked around at the surfaces strewn with a random assortment if items, all mixed in with plates, mugs, empty whisky and beer bottles. It was not a good look. Since he’d missed the call he couldn’t put him off and suggest talking somewhere, anywhere, else. He decided it was a lost cause, and got up to try and find some painkillers to take the edge off the pain that had taken hold of him again since his nap. He found a bottle at the back of a kitchen cupboard and swallowed a couple down with a swig from the nearest open liquor bottle.

There was a knock at the door. His heart stuttered. He had no idea how he should feel about this meeting and hadn’t managed to think of what he was going to say. He contemplated the walk to the door and quickly swallowed a couple more tablets. He limped across the small flat and opened the door to find Thursday with a bundle of paper that smelled suspiciously of fish and chips. 

“Sir? What are you doing here?”

“Thought you could do with a good meal after your escapade down the stairs.” Thursday smiled at him, and he felt rather guilty for how disappointed he was that it was him, not Peter, at his door.

“Thank you, that’s really kind of you.” Normally he would have been glad of the company, but tonight he mostly wanted to drink himself to sleep. Or see Peter. Or both. What he definitely didn’t want to do was pretend that everything was fine for Thursday.

Thursday came inside the flat and looked around. He raised his eyebrows at the state of the place but didn’t comment on it. Instead he made his way to the kitchen to look for a plate for the meal. Morse had a suspicion there weren’t any in there. He hadn’t washed up more than a mug and a glass as needed for some time. There was the sound of running water and his fears were confirmed. He limped into the kitchen after the Inspector and made his way over to the sink to try and take over the washing up. 

“Sorry, Sir, bit behind on the washing up. Been so busy recently. Let me do that.”

“Too busy drinking yourself into a state at dragon clubs with Jakes from what I hear.” Thursday placed a pile of plates and assorted cutlery into the sink.

Morse panicked. _How did he know?_ Had Peter said something? _What_ had Peter said? He tried to hide his discomfort by rolling up his sleeves to the elbows and stepping forward to the sink. He stopped short of putting his hands in the steaming water when he realised the bandage on his wrist would get wet. He looked down at his arms and his panic reached a whole new level. His arms were littered with small grazes and bruises, but more tellingly, there was a bruise on his arm, towards his elbow that was a clear imprint of a hand. All of a sudden he felt like he was back on the pavement the night before. The ghosts of firm hands holding his arms while blows rained upon his body. He tried to breathe but it felt like there was a lead weight pressing down on his chest. 

“Morse?” Thursday turned from unwrapping their meal and looked over at him. He was only vaguely aware of the other man coming over and placing a hand on his shoulder. There was a strange ringing noise in his ears and everything was far too bright. He couldn’t stop staring at his arms. Firm hands gently guided him from the sink to a chair and made him sit. A calloused palm lifted his chin, forcing his eyes from his arms to meet Thursday’s eyes. The other man sat opposite him. 

“Sir, I… I...” His voice shook and he found his mind was blank on what he should say.

“Its OK Morse, just look at me. Now, breathe lad.” Thursday’s voice was steady and reassuring. He focussed on that and took a deep shuddering breath. “I think you’re going to need to tell me what happened with the ‘stairs’ lad.” 

“I… I fell. I just fell.” The lie felt hollow, pointless, but it was all he could bring himself to say. 

“OK, so who made you fall then, and why? Because I don’t know many sets of stairs as leave handprints on a man’s arms.” 

Why was the Inspector being so nice to him? He found kindness so hard to understand or to trust in. He looked down again. This time at his knees. Why had he gone to pieces now of all times?

“I… It was a stupid fight. I said the wrong thing. Upset someone.”

“Who did you upset?”

“I don’t know. Just some guy in a bar. I went on after the club. I was too drunk. Can’t remember where, can’t remember what he looked like, can’t even remember what I said.” The lies made him feel sick. He could remember every single hideous second of the attack. The memory of those three men’s faces would be etched into his mind for the rest of his life, but he couldn’t describe them, couldn’t have them punished, because then they would tell everyone _why_ they had done it. He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Sir. It was really stupid of me. I… won’t make that mistake again.”

Thursday made an aggrieved noise and stood up from his chair. He paced the small kitchen. “Morse, I… I honestly don’t know what to do with you. If you don’t get a hold on your drinking, well, you’ve seen now where that can lead.” He picked up the parcel of fish and chips and set it down on the table beside Morse. “I need you to think about your priorities lad. I want a report tomorrow on what happened and, like it or not, I’m looking in to this.” He held a hand up to stall any objections “Unless the ‘other guy’ in this scenario has significant injuries, is unable to walk properly, and has spent the day passing out on mortuary floors, I don’t want to hear it. If you were as drunk as you say then that was no fair fight and I won’t stand for violence against any officer in my nick.” He picked up his hat and coat and made his way out. “I’ll not stay. I’m too likely to end up shouting at you, and we both know that’ll do neither of us any good. Eat your food. Mind how you go.”

Morse was left alone, staring at a pile of fish and chips. He sat there, unthinking, as they slowly went cold. He didn’t want to eat, he was too numb for that. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to breathe. He wanted out of here. Unsteadily, he got up from the chair and set off for the living room, stopping only to take a couple of tablets on the way. The sounds of Verdi still flowed from his turntable. It should have grounded him, but it wasn’t enough. _He needed to get out._ He crossed the room and opened the door, only to come face to face with Peter Jakes. 

“Morse?” The expression of concern and confusion on Peter’s face was his undoing. He closed the small space between them and wrapped his arms around the taller man, burying his face in his shoulder. There was only a heartbeat’s pause before he felt Peter wrap his arms around him. 

Finally he felt safe. Finally he felt _home._ He didn’t care how dangerous this could be for him if he was wrong again. Right now, all he wanted was this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE HUGS!


	7. Soporific Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not everything I meant to put into this one. It was also supposed to be part of the last chapter but it just keeps growing... I've truly lost control of it now.

Peter finally finished his report a good hour or more after he had been due to finish for the day. He looked to the clock and tried to decide whether Thursday, who had left on time, would have been to Morse’s and left already. In the end he decided he might as well make his way there. He could make a plan on the way over. 

The idea came to him as he passed a clothing shop on his way to the bus. The windows were still lit, it was late opening day. A navy-blue scarf with a sky blue and gold check pattern caught his eye. He stopped and thought how well it would bring our Morse’s eyes and hair. He tried to shake it off. He had kissed the man once, found out he was a dragon, insulted him, then given him a hug and kissed him again. They still hadn’t talked about some pretty serious matters. This was not a relationship. He shouldn’t be buying him gifts or daydreaming about how good a scarf would make him look. However, it would provide a good pretext if he got there and Thursday was still there. He could say Morse had left it in the car and he was returning it on his way home. 

When he arrived at Morse’s street a while later, he could see the lights were on from the street. There was no way to tell if the Inspector was still there. He waited on the pavement, by the railings, for a few minutes, undecided. Perhaps he should come back later. He checked his watch. Morse would need his sleep tonight. He needed rest to heal. So maybe it was better he just got this over with. He started down the steps and had just reached the door when it opened.

Morse stood in front of him, so close the clouds their breath made in the freezing air were entwined, indistinguishable one from the other. Morse was paler than he had ever seen him. The lights from the flat caught on his hair and accented its red gold highlights so that they almost looked like flames. His expression was utterly blank in a way that terrified Peter. The sounds of opera drifted out to enclose them in a strange kind of space – Peter out in the cold and dark, but with a heart full of light and hope – Morse in the bright and warm flat, with a face that was so desolate that he could hardly bear it. 

“Morse?” He wanted to reach out to him, fix whatever was wrong, but he didn’t want to overstep the bounds of whatever this was between them.

Without a word Morse closed the small space between them. He felt arms wrap around his back, then Morse pressed his face into his shoulder. He didn’t even think about what to do, he simply responded in the only way he could and held Morse to him. 

They stayed that way until Peter realised Morse was shivering. “Christ, Morse, how cold are you? Let’s go inside, eh?” He didn’t respond, so Peter tried again. He pressed his own head to Morse’s and spoke quietly into the other man’s ear, “come on, much as I’m pleased to finally get to hold you, you need to get back in the warm.”

“I was going out.” Morse mumbled into his shoulder.

“Where were you going at this hour, in just your shirt, when its this cold?” 

Morse sighed, “no idea.” Peter could have wept for the despondency he could hear in his voice. 

“Come on then, you promised me a talk, and I’m holding you to that, but I’m not about to do that in the street.”

“Didn’t stop you last time.” There was no bitterness that Peter could hear in that statement, but he also wasn’t sure if it was a joke.

“I’m sorry.” 

Finally, Morse looked at him. He met Peter’s stare with a sad sort of smile. “I know. It was a joke. Sort of.” He stepped back and broke their embrace. Looking down at his shoes he added, “you know me. Can’t help saying the single worst thing that comes into my head. I’m quite proficient at using words to destroy anything even potentially good in my life.” 

Peter’s heart ached for Morse. He could tell he believed it. He had thought himself unworthy of love for long enough that he could easily see it in him. Morse was skilled at hiding his need for others. So much so, that Peter was only just beginning to see the extent of it. He was pretty sure very few people had seen this side to him, and that even fewer had seen how readily Morse believed himself to be undeserving of love and kindness. 

“Let’s go inside.” He dared to reach out and take Morse’s unbandaged hand. Together they went inside the flat, shutting the door behind them against the bitter night air.

The surroundings were not what Peter expected, and yet exactly what he had feared. Morse’s flat was not as warm as he had thought, but it was significantly better than it had been outside. Half unpacked boxes cluttered the corners of the room. The furniture was tatty and looked like it had been picked up off the street rather than chosen with care as his own was. There were stacks of books and records, some slotted on to shelves, but many others lay around mixed with empty bottles and various other detritus. 

The sheer volume of empties was what struck him most. Thursday hadn’t been exaggerating when he had said Morse was ‘bad with alcohol’. He had said then that he knew, had thought he did, he had seen the way the man could put away a few pints at the pub even at lunch, and then the amount he had consumed at the club last night, but this was something else. Drinking whiskey, most likely alone, what looked like must be every night was more that just ‘bad with alcohol’. 

Morse sank into an armchair with a groan. “I’m sorry Peter, I don’t know why I’m so tired.”

“Well, that’s understandable. I guess you didn’t get much sleep last night?” He shrugged off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair. The scarf was bundled, forgotten, in a pocket.

“No… but I did sleep for most of the day. Why aren’t the damn painkillers working?” Morse leaned his head back in the armchair and promptly fell asleep. Peter panicked. All his previous fears of unidentified injuries and undiagnosed concussion came rushing back. He shook Morse by the shoulder gently, anxious of hurting him with all those bruises.

“Morse? Morse…?” 

Morse opened his eyes again. “Dammit, sorry Peter, I…” an odd look crossed his face, “I think I might have taken the wrong tablets.” 

“What tablets?” Alarm rang loud and clear in Peter’s head. Could this man not be trusted with anything? 

“In the kitchen.”

Peter hurried to the kitchen and found the open pill bottle next to an open bottle of whiskey. Why would he think taking tablets with alcohol was a good idea in his state? He set that aside as an issue to deal with later and picked up the pill bottle. The label only had a drug name and dosage, but he recognised it from his younger days when his memories had kept him awake through the night. Sleeping tablets. Who the heck would randomly take pills from a bottle and not check the label? Morse apparently. He rushed back and woke him again. 

“Morse, how many of these did you take?” 

Morse tried to focus on the bottle. “Four maybe? Or six? I got a bit… confused. Definitely not more than six.” 

“How many are you supposed to take?” 

“Two. But I never actually… I didn’t take them.” Morse yawned widely and tried to keep his eyes open, but Peter could see it was a losing battle. 

“I’m calling for an ambulance.” He had no idea how bad an overdose of so few tablets could be but he wasn’t going to take any risks. Morse struggled upright, anxiety lining his face.

“No, please, don’t.” 

“Morse, I’m not taking any risks with you.” 

“Call Max… Call Debryn. He can say if its bad. Its only a couple extra. Please… Peter.” Morse pleaded with him. Peter considered and decided that at least this way if Debryn said it was bad he would have some way to force Morse to go to hospital. He nodded, and Morse relaxed back into the armchair. “His number is in the book by the phone.”

Peter flipped through the small, almost empty, phone book and dialled the Doctor’s home number. He hadn’t known they were close. His mind flipped back to Debryn’s hand on Morse’s arm that morning, and his words. Was there… had there been… something there? He tried to set his jealousy aside as Debryn picked up.

“Max Debryn speaking.”

“Doc, this is Jakes, Peter,” he stumbled over what his position in this scenario should be to the Doctor. Was he Sergeant Jakes, Morse’s superior officer, or Peter, his friend? 

“Sergeant? What are you doing calling my home at this hour? Nothing urgent I hope, I have a casserole in the oven, and visitors over.”

“I… I don’t know. Morse… I dropped in to check on him. He took some tablets he thought were painkillers, but they weren’t.”

“What did he take?” The Doctor’s voice had taken on a more brusque efficiency. 

Jakes read the name and dosage to him from the label. “He thinks he took four or six. No more. I just checked the contents and it couldn’t have been more than that.”

The Doctor sighed, “I take it he won’t agree to go to hospital to be checked out?” Peter looked to Morse, who was now sound asleep again. “No? Didn’t think so. Well, if you’re certain it was only six at that dosage, he should be completely fine. The standard dose is equivalent to about four of those, so he’ll probably just sleep through the night with no ill effects. Certainly, it’s not enough to do him any serious harm at all.” Jakes breathed a sigh of relief. His heart was beating too fast, and he thought it could be a while before it settled down after the panic of the last couple of minutes. “I’d rather someone kept an eye on him,” Debryn continued, “I know you’re not exactly close… but would you mind? At least until I could come by?”

“No, not at all Doc. I’ve not got any plans. Don’t upset your evening. I’ll stay here with him. I can crash on the sofa so I can keep an eye on him.” 

“If you’re sure? I would come over later, but honestly, it shouldn’t be anything to be concerned about at all.”

“Its fine.”

“Right, well, give me a call any time if you have any concerns.”

“I will. Thanks for your help, and sorry to bother you.”

“No trouble, Sergeant. Try not to crick your neck on that sofa!” He laughed and rang off. Peter set the handset back down and looked to the sleeping Morse. This was so far from what he had planned for this evening.

He made his way back over to Morse and gently laid a hand on his face. He was cold, but breathing fine. “Morse?” Morse made a querying noise in his sleep. “Morse? You’re fine. Debryn says you’ll just sleep through. Do you think you could get to bed? This chair is not a great choice with your bruises.” Morse’s reply was an unintelligible mumble. Peter considered his options. The bedroom was not so far. He knew from earlier he could carry the man relatively easily. As he gathered Morse’s sleeping form in his arms, he stirred and opened his eyes. 

“Peter…?”

His heart was still racing, but now from something other than worry. He wished Morse wouldn’t look at him that way. They still had to talk, and yet when he looked at him like that… He smiled. “You wouldn’t help me out so I’m going to have to carry you. You can’t sleep in that.” He lifted Morse from the chair. He didn’t protest, and simply curled his body in against Peter’s, resting his head on his shoulder.

Once they were in the bedroom Peter set Morse down on his unmade bed. Morse mumbled something he couldn’t hear, curled onto his side, and fell properly asleep yet again. The sight of him, clothing loose and rumpled, hair a tangled mess, his face flushed, lips slightly parted… It made his heart ache in a complicated, and yet all too simple way he didn’t want to acknowledge. Falling in love with this man, this dragon, _his Morse_ … He knew he shouldn’t, but it didn’t seem like his heart was going to give him any choice.

He sighed and removed Morse’s shoes, then pulled the sheets over his thin form. For a while he sat in the living room, but he found himself getting up every couple of minutes to check on him. He was exhausted after the previous day and night, but there was no way he was going to be able to sleep in an armchair when he was worrying about Morse in the next room. The record finished playing. He wouldn't have admitted it to Morse but he had actually quite liked it, whatever it was. He raided the kitchen in search of coffee, but barring tea bags, stale bread, cheese, and butter there was nothing there but yet more whiskey. 

Eventually he gave in, kicked off his shoes, removed his jacket and tie. and climbed on top of the sheets on the opposite side of the bed to Morse. He had never seen him look this peaceful. Morse had the look of a man that was always carrying a weight on his shoulders. His usual posture was hunched, angular, tense. Now, as he slept, he looked completely at ease. There was also a defenceless quality to him without his usual mask of self-sufficiency that unnerved him. He still hated to think of Morse as vulnerable. It made him want to protect him, to _keep_ him.

Morse’s face shifted, dreaming, and he cried out quietly. Instinctively, Peter reached out a hand and tenderly smoothed his unruly hair from his face. He ran his fingers gently through those soft waves, soothing Morse until his breathing came evenly again. 

Sleep claimed him as he lay there with one arm curled around Morse’s back, his hand still entwined in his hair. 

As they slept Morse reached out and claimed Peter's other hand, holding it tight to his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks. I really, truly, did mean for them to get their talk. They just won't behave. Also, Morse is beyond a disaster. BEYOND. 
> 
> Hope the snuggling makes up for the panic!


	8. Infernal Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're STILL not behaving. When will the case plot continue? Who. Even. Knows.

Things were hazy from the point he realised his error with the tablets. He was vaguely aware of Peter trying to ask him questions, phoning Max, telling him he would be fine. Morse knew it wasn’t a delusion that Peter had carried him to his bed. He might have felt some embarrassment, but he was too tired, so instead he pressed himself in to Peter’s body and took joy in the comforting feeling of being held so close. The next he knew, he was in his own bed, and Peter was gone. He drifted deeper into sleep.

~~~~~~

_  
Rough hands gripped his arms tight enough to bruise. At first he was back in the alley of the previous night. He struggled in the hold of the stronger man and waited for blows that never came. The world shifted around him. The hands that held him were larger, his arms smaller, weaker. The sense of panic so much worse. He couldn’t give up, he needed to get free, to help her._

_No. No! He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to see. He closed his eyes tightly._

_His mother called out to him. She called his name, told him to get away. Her voice was a beacon through the dark of the night. He tried to call out to her but no sound came out. He couldn’t get to her. He couldn’t see. In the distance there were crashing sounds, and the roar of fire. Then her screams filled the air. He could feel his world being torn apart. His eyes flew open._

_Everything was all too familiar. He didn’t want to see but it just wouldn’t stop._

_He screamed for his mother again and again. In the dark he could just see the three men surrounding her. Their feet landed on her again and again. His lungs burned from his screams._

_Then there was silence. An endless, bleak, emptiness filled the night. He stopped struggling. He wanted to scream at himself to do something, to take vengeance, but there was nothing. The numbness spread through his limbs and his legs gave out._

_The abrasive hands let him fall. Through the dark he could just make out her fallen form. Her limbs laid lifelessly on the tiled floor. A dark stain was spreading across the space between them._

_He reached out a hand to try and touch her. It couldn’t be real. His heart was like a ball of lead in his body. His hand met the warm, dark, stickiness that pooled around her. He touched her shoulder. She didn’t move. He wanted to be sick._

_He was frozen. Ice grew in his veins. Smoke began to fill the room. He waited for the friendly bite of flames. Haven was gone. She was gone. His mother was gone. There was nothing in his world now. The void pulled at him, distorting his vision._

_Above him the four men coughed and argued. He couldn’t make sense of their words. Ringing filled his ears and a glacial weight tightened around his chest._

_He should have changed, should have struck them. But he was empty. He should have bitten, and beaten, and burned, but he had only watched her fall, felt her fear, failed her._

_From what felt like a mile away he heard her coming. Sensed her rage. The ball of fire flew over him and struck first one, and then another, of the men. Their screams filled the air, and their ashes rained down upon him. She was silhouetted in doorway to their rooms, her wings spread wide, her eyes bright with fire._

_Another form appeared at speed and he no longer saw her. He was coated in blood and ash, but he could feel none of it. There was only darkness, and pain, and cold.  
_

~~~~~~

He opened his eyes to another room. He couldn’t breathe. He drew desperately at the air but it wouldn’t seem to enter his lungs. It whistled around his teeth. Stuck in his throat. A different kind of darkness flittered around the edges of his vision. There was icy fire in his body. He was consumed by pain in his body and soul. The shadows tugged at him.

“Morse?” A familiar voice called to him. “Morse! Its OK, You’re OK. I’m here…” A warm hand found his face. _Peter?_ “I’m here, Morse, try and take some slower breaths. Breathe with me, OK?” Sensitive fingers ran through his hair. Another hand found his. His cold bones drew on the warmth of the soft palm against his. 

Gradually, he regained control over his lungs. They still ached from the screams of so many years ago. Early morning light touched on the angular features of Peter Jakes, who was sat beside him. He gave Morse a weak smile. “You back with me?” He swallowed at the look in his eyes, “you gave me a scare there. Nightmare?”

He nodded. He couldn’t bring himself to speak yet. Nightmare did not really cover it. It was more of a memory. Some of it had slipped away over time, but the parts that had stayed with him he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried. In the light of day he could keep the images at bay, but some nights they came back to haunt him. He closed his eyes and tried to fight back the tears he felt building. It seemed like all he had done was cry over Peter in the last couple of days.

“I’m sorry. I’ll.. I’ll be fine.” Peter’s hand was still stroking his hair. It was so wonderfully soothing. He leaned in to the touch. 

“Did you want to talk about it?” He opened his eyes and met Peter’s dark blue gaze. “Sometimes I dream about, about… about the past. About the things that happened you know. I dream about that the most, but sometimes I dream about people now. I dream of the people I’ve failed. The other night I had a dream about you in prison…” Peter blinks and looks away for a moment. “Sorry, I was asking you, and here I am talking about my dreams.” He smiled awkwardly.

“I was dreaming of my mother,” he found himself saying, “of the day she… was killed.”

“I thought your mother died of cancer?” Dark brows furrowed with confusion.

Morse shook his head slightly. “No. No, she was murdered. I was 12. I was… there…” The tears he had been holding back began to fall. “I should have changed. I don’t know why I didn’t. I could have saved her. I should have saved her.” The look of horror on Peter’s face was too much. He closed his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I’m sorry...”

A gentle hand moved from his hair to his face, and brushed away his tears. The other held his tightly. “I’m sorry you went through that. No child should have to see their parent die. Mine were… well, they were a bit shit really, but I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to go through that. I am so sorry, Morse.” It felt like his soul was drawing warmth from the kindness Peter was showing him. He let it soothe him, begin to heal some of the void he carried within himself every day. “She was… like you? A dragon?”

“Yes.”

“What about your father?”

“No. No, he was human. And ‘a bit shit’, as you put it.” He laughed through his tears and opened his eyes again. Peter was watching him curiously. “My stepmother was- is- more than a bit shit. I went to live with them… after.”

“That must have been hard. After losing your mother that way.”

“It was. But they only hated me. Nothing ever came of it. I had school… but I was in hiding by then. It was hard to learn to… just be human. It must have been… worse, for you.... the tings that happened to you.” He had never meant for them to talk about these things. He had meant to find a way to put Peter safely back out of harm's way. Part of him still wanted to, but this was the first time he had talked honestly about his past in, well, ever, and he couldn’t help but think that must mean something.

“What I went through… well, you know about that.” Peter shrugged, “That day, in that pub, when you guessed… I thought I would never tell anyone. Never. I don’t know what I would have done if you’d reacted differently. That’s why I feel so guilty, about the other night. You treated me in a way I thought I could never hope for, and I… I said some truly awful things.”

“I understand why though, and I meant what I said yesterday, it really is fine.”

“No. No, it isn’t. It is not ‘fine’ that I said those things, or left you, or that you got hurt. It is not ‘fine’ that you thought you had to hide those injuries, just as it isn’t ‘fine’ that you have to hide what you are, who you are, your past. None of that is ‘fine’.” Peter watched him with an intensity that would once have felt uncomfortable, but now Morse was drawn by it. He began to feel like some of his words were settling in his heart, pulling him closer to a place of home, and of hope. He needed to be wary. Getting this wrong now… It wasn’t worth thinking about. “And! While we’re on ‘things that aren’t fine’,” Peter continued abruptly, “it is not ‘fine’ that you have zero food in your house, take tablets by the handful without reading the bottle, and drink a ridiculous amount of alcohol! Its like you have a death wish, Morse, and I need you to know, no matter how this… thing... all pans out, I will always be here as your friend, holding you accountable for eating at least one meal a day, cutting out the booze, and trying not to accidentally do yourself in at every turn!”

The strength of feeling in Peter’s words was a shock to him. No one had ever said anything like that to him before. People were always too busy tiptoeing around the issue, or telling him he was an idiot. No one had ever offered, let alone declared, that they would help him. Or, more precisely, in this case help him to help himself.

Laughter, genuine and bright, spilled from him. He found himself laughing harder than he had in what felt like a lifetime. Peter stared at him, completely perplexed.

“Why are you laughing?”

Morse gasped for breath. The laughter hurt his bruised ribs, but it was worth it to finally feel something. “I...” He tried to stall the laughing long enough to talk, “No one has ever been brave enough to tell me it straight.”

“And that is funny because?” Peter was still looking confused but there was a smile on his lips. 

“I honestly don’t know.” He managed to regain control and made a spur of the moment decision to address the dragon in the room head on. “How much do you know about dragons, Peter?”

“Err...” Peter blinked in surprise at the change in topic, “not a lot I suppose?”

Morse moved to sit up in bed. It felt odd talking about this, him lying down, and Peter sat on the edge of the bed. He still hurt a lot from the beating but it wasn’t as bad as the day before. A lot of sleep, and time for the hangover to wear off, had done a world of good.

“Dragons need two things to live. Properly live that is, not just survive. They need Hoarde. You should know about that. We all find something that brings us joy at some point early in our lives. It can be anything, but when we find it, we know. From then on, for the rest of our lives, we feel a compulsion to, well, hoard that thing. It gives us something that its hard to explain to a human. Kind of like joy, purpose, and solace, all rolled in to one.” Peter was listening intently to him. There was no sign of the disgust he had seen the other night. He realised their hands were still joined. Looking down at them, he continued. “Haven is… is the thing we don’t talk about to humans so much. Haven isn’t just a marriage, or a house. It is so much more. We first have Haven as children, with our parents. Then later we find a someone, or someones, and usually a place, and then that becomes our Haven. It is… love and acceptance, home and hope, family and… so much more. A dragon without Haven is… pitiful.” He couldn’t look up from their hands, couldn’t risk exposing his heart any more than he just had.

“Your Hoarde is opera, music, that kind of thing?” Peter asked tentatively.

“Yes. I found that when I was in my late teens. That’s late for most dragons.”

“What about your Haven? This place, its not exactly homely.” 

“I don’t have Haven.” He looked up, risked seeing what Peter thought. He was frowning. “I haven’t had Haven since the day my mother was killed and my home destroyed.”

“Then you were without either of them, Hoarde or Haven, for what, four years or so?”

“Yes.”

“So that must have been really bad then.”

“Almost fatal.” Peter’s eyes widened in shock. “A dragon with neither of their essential parts rarely lives that long.”

“Christ, Morse!” Peter ran his free hand through his hair. “So finding your Hoarde, that saved you right?”

“In a sense.” He shrugged.

“How have you gone this long without Haven?” There was concern in Peter’s voice. He had almost hoped he wouldn’t get it, the importance of it, but Peter had seen right through him once more.

“I survive. That’s it. That’s why ‘fine’ is the best I can do most days. If I didn’t have any hope that I could find it though… I don’t know. I thought I had it and lost it several times. I was wrong of course, it wasn't Haven," He couldn't quite bring himself to say the rest- _'in the end everyone I ever love leaves me.'_ Instead he simply added. "those times were… bad.”

“How did you manage, in prison? There couldn't have been much music there, so no Hoarde again?” Peter’s grip on his hand grew tighter. 

“I didn’t manage. I was… in the worst state I’d been for a very long time.” His free hand, the bandaged one, was a tight fist. Peter reached out his own and wove their fingers together. “Then you came. Peter, whatever happens now, I wanted you to know, you saved my life that day. You gave me hope.” He smiled at the dark haired man before him. Tried to sear the image of him as he was now into his memory to keep forever - Peter's usually perfectly arranged hair a tousled mess, his dark blue eyes fathomless as the night sky, the quiet intensity that hid beneath the showy exterior. He wanted to remember forever what it was like to have someone truly _see_ him, and still care. “Thank you, Peter. Thank you for giving me hope again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy they FINALLY are talking. And being cute. Not that that part was in the plan.


	9. The Dim Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks, had this written yesterday but the Christmas meal beckoned so editing was not done. This is all still part of what was supposed to be one chapter...

Peter was lost for words. What was Morse trying to do to him?! Getting beaten up, hiding it, passing out, taking an accidental overdose, screaming in his sleep like someone was trying to kill him, then telling him twice in the space of one conversation that he had nearly died. Then to top it all off telling him he had seen his own mother _murdered!_ He had known that Morse was unpredictable from their time working together, but this was mad.

Part of him was screaming that he couldn’t fix everything, that he should walk away now, but it was a very small part. The rest of him ached to hold this beautiful man until all his pieces came back together and healed. He wondered what Morse would be like if he hadn’t gone through the things that he had. In the end it didn’t matter. Morse was hurt, he had needs, but he wasn’t broken. Peter didn’t really believe anyone was ever truly broken. That would imply that they were in some way wrong for being what they were, damaged goods, and that they should be fixed. Healing was a whole other concept to him to fixing, and no one could ever really be ‘fixed’. That would imply it was possible to erase all that had happened to them, but then they would never have become what they were now.

It was like that art he had seen somewhere. When something had been damaged, they saw the beauty in what it was, and what it had become, so they would put it together again with gold. There was no hiding the cracks, they were right there, part of the whole, and admired in the piece as a complete story. He was who he was because of his past. Accepting that had been the hardest thing he had ever done, but it had helped him to heal. Morse was who he was because of his past, but also because of his present. Right now, all the pieces were there, but no one could see the whole picture.

Morse was smiling at him and thanking him for saving his life at a time he hadn’t known how much he was hurting; hadn’t known he was doing any good. He had almost not gone out of fear for what he might find. In the end guilt had won out. He had never been so glad of something he had done out of guilt. He was spared from working out how to reply by Morse’s phone ringing. Peter got up to answer it, but Morse stopped him.

“I don’t know about you, but I’d rather we kept the fact you spent the night here between the two of us for now.” Morse struggled off the bed and limped towards the phone. Peter followed him, feeling a bit lost. The strange bubble they had been sheltering in for the last minutes was burst. They were abruptly thrown back into a space where they were two, male, colleagues who had kissed and spent a night together (albeit completely chaste). Peter was pretty sure he was blushing.

“Fair enough.” He shrugged, feeling awkward. “Though for the record, if that’s the Doc’, he thinks I spent the night on your sofa.”

Morse answered the phone “Morse, speaking… Max, yes, sorry…. No, I… Just a confusion, should’ve read the bottle…” There was a long pause where Peter guessed the Doctor was telling Morse exactly what he thought of people that didn’t read the bottle when taking tablets. Morse winced at something he said and ran his good hand through his hair. He looked to Peter, “yes, he’s here still… Honestly, I’m fine… I’ll pass you over.” He held out the receiver “Max would like a word.”

Peter took the receiver. He tried to ignore the twinge of jealousy at the ever formal Morse using the Doctor’s first name so casually. Morse limped away in the direction of the kitchen. “Morning, Doc.”

“Ah, Sergeant! How’s the neck?” The Doctor asked.

“Not too bad, considering,” he lied, “you wanted to speak with me?”

“yes, how was he? Not bad I take it if he’s up and talking already.”

“Yeah, all fine. Slept through.” He glanced in the direction Morse had gone. From the kitchen there was the sound of cupboards opening.

“I’ve asked him to pop in later so I can check on the bruising. Could you make sure he actually turns up, and doesn’t find some obscure way to avoid it?” 

“I can try, but you know Morse.”

“Indeed.” Debryn sighed. “Well, give me a call if needed and I’ll come track him down.”

“Of course, bye then.”

“Goodbye.” 

Morse reappeared from the kitchen empty handed. He ran a hand through his unruly red gold hair. “I appear to be a bit light on the usual breakfast essentials, sorry.”

He laughed at Morse’s embarrassed expression. “I figured that out last night. Come on, if we get a move on and smartened up we’re early enough to grab something on the way in.” Morse pulled a face and made to limp away to the bedroom. “I’m not taking no for an answer. I saw you didn’t eat your dinner last night. Please tell me you did eat _something_ yesterday?”

Morse glared at him from the doorway. “I had a sandwich.”

Peter didn’t know whether to be amused or appalled. “ _A sandwich?_ As in a single sandwich? Presumably with the bread out there that’s on its way to becoming an intelligent lifeform? Christ, Morse! How is there anything left of you?” Morse only gave him an all too familiar sullen look in reply and closed the bedroom door.

~~~~~~

Morse changed as quickly as his aching muscles would allow. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was actually quite hungry now. He was running low on clothes. He hadn’t done his laundry for several days, and now two of his suits were in complete state. Peter came in as he was trying to get his hair under control.

“You got any spare shirts? I borrowed your iron to sort my trousers, but this is pretty far gone,” he said, holding out his shirt. Morse cursed his dragon blood as he blushed at the sight of Peter’s bare chest. He looked back to the mirror quickly but he was pretty certain he heard Peter stifle a laugh.

“I might. I doubt any of them are better than that though.” He could hear Peter rummaging through the wardrobe behind him. The sounds stopped abruptly. 

“You probably ought to soak this. It’ll be ruined otherwise.” Peter said quietly. He turned back to see what Peter was talking about and was met with the sight of the jacket he’d been wearing the night of the attack. Peter’s face was dark. There was a blood stain down one sleeve. His stomach rebelled and he looked away. Peter swore. “Sorry, Morse. I… Its just… Its hard to accept that someone hurt you like that.” He marched out of the room, jacket in hand, leaving Morse unsure of what had just happened.

~~~~~~

The bus ride to the station felt like it took forever. They had passed some polite conversation, but nothing of any consequence since Peter had found that jacket. He looked over at Morse, who was staring at the window that was thick with condensation. He wished he knew what to say. They had felt so close for that short space of time on the bed, then after the phone call things had shifted a little, and then he had gone and ruined it all with the damn jacket.

It was soaking in Morse’s bathroom sink now. The stain was well set so it was probably a futile act, but for some reason he felt compelled to try. He hadn’t been able to get the courage up to go back in that room again, so he was wearing last night’s shirt. Morse was wearing his usual shabby get up that was far worse than his own, but he knew that no one would think twice about that, people would, however, notice his own shirt was less than pristine.

They got off the bus a stop early and went into a café. Peter insisted on buying Morse a full breakfast, despite his protests that he only ever had a light meal this early, and got them both a coffee. Morse flinched at the strong liquid but drank it. They both made steady progress through their food in near silence. Peter reached into his pocket for a cigarette and was instead met with fabric. He frowned and removed the item. It was the scarf he had bought the previous evening. 

Morse looked up from his coffee and frowned at him thoughtfully. “Why do you have two scarves?” 

Now it was Peter’s turn to feel embarrassed. He struggled with himself over whether to admit he had bought it for Morse. He was acutely aware of the couple of other people in the café. Tucked into a corner by the window they wouldn’t be too easily overheard, but he couldn’t say a fraction of what he wanted here. “Err… well, I kinda needed a reason to be dropping by last night if the Old Man was there, so… you left this in the car.” He offered the scarf to Morse over the table.

Morse stared at the scarf, evidently confused. “I don’t have a scarf.”

“Well… now you do.” Still Morse made no move to take it. How could the man be so dense? “I got it for you.” He added as quietly and casually as he could. Morse finally took the hint and reached out to take the scarf. He placed it on the table next to him and stared at it for some time. 

“Why do people keep buying me scarves...” He muttered, seemingly to himself. 

“I thought you didn’t have a scarf?”

Morse looked taken aback that he had spoken out loud, but answered, “I don’t. They all seem to meet some terrible fate or other.” He shrugged and stroked the soft material. “Perhaps you should keep hold of it. Spare it from certain doom.”

Was he making a joke? He really couldn’t tell any more. This morning had felt like several days. “Morse...”

“Its a joke Peter.” Morse smiled at him, and some of the tension he had felt since they left the flat eased. “Well, not entirely. My scarves do seem to… suffer somewhat. But I was joking about you taking it back. Thank you.”

They finished the rest of their food in a more comfortable silence. He watched Morse surreptitiously, and was gratified to see that he ate most of the food before him. They paid up and left. When they got back out into the cold and dim light of the morning Peter’s heart lifted at the sight of Morse wearing the scarf. It really did accentuate the blue of his eyes, and the gold in his hair.

~~~~~~

Morse could have done without the usual run over to pick up the Inspector. After last night, he was more than a bit embarrassed to see Thursday. The drive over was made all the more tricky by his bruises. The only benefit that he could see was that it got him away from fabricating a plausible story about how he came to get beaten up that contained zero facts.

The Thursday’s house was warm and welcoming as usual. Joan insisted he come in whilst he waited, and Mrs Thursday tried to offer him tea and toast.

He waved them off. “No, thank you for the offer, but I’ve already had breakfast.” From their faces he’d have thought he had just announced he was the king of France.

“You?” Joan laughed, “you’ve never had breakfast in your life! What a liar!” She tapped him playfully on the arm. 

“Joan!” Mrs Thursday admonished. “I’m sorry love, I do my best with her, but she will go about opening that big mouth of hers.” Joan gaped at her mother.

“Its alright, Mrs Thursday,” Morse smiled at them, “She has something of a point. I’m not exactly known for being organised in the mornings.” The easy comfort of family life was enticing to him. He couldn’t help but be drawn to such simple happiness. It took the edge off his raw nerves. 

He had felt strung out, confused, and generally lost since he had woken. He had told Peter some of his deepest secrets, then practically ignored the poor man since. It had been the sight of Peter’s face when he held up that jacket that had done it. He had realised then how badly Peter was hurt by what had happened to him. If he didn’t keep his secret from the world then he had no doubt there would be more events like that one, and he didn’t want to see Peter hurt again. The trouble was that, if he didn’t reveal his status, there was no easy way for them to be together. People tolerated same sex couples when one, or both, was a dragon in a way that they failed to for the rest of society. Dragons had always been prone to being that way, and they would fight with fire to defend their right to love whoever they chose.

The thought of love caught him by surprise. He had been trying so hard to avoid it, but he knew he was seriously in danger of falling in love with Peter. Falling in love was hazardous. It meant risking his heart, risking that person leaving him, risking the world tearing them apart, risking the possibility of losing Haven again.

“Penny for them?” Thursday asked. Morse jumped. He had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t heard the Inspector arrive. Joan laughed at him again and then set off out the door for work. Mrs Thursday kissed her husband goodbye and they headed for the car.

“Sorry, Sir. I was thinking about the case,” he lied.

Thursday waved to Joan as she reached the corner, then got in the car. “Any of your bright ideas? We really could do with them you know.” There was no hint of the anger Thursday had shown the previous night. Morse was glad he was not quizzing him any more about the attack but he doubted that would last. Hopefully he would spare him the shame of talking about his embarrassing reaction. 

“Not really, sorry Sir, but hopefully someone will be in to report a missing person today. Two days is about the limit most people would wait, don’t you think?”

Thursday hummed his agreement. “Provided they have someone to report them missing.”

Morse couldn’t decide if it would be better or worse not to know who the victim was. Whatever happened, there was bound to be a ton more attention than he could ever want when the case was made public.

~~~~~~

When they got to the station their thoughts about missing persons were answered. Peter was sat talking to a middle aged woman. She had a guarded expression, and kept glancing around the office. Peter waved them over.

“Sir, this is Mrs Kite. Her husband hasn’t come home for a couple of days.” Morse could sense the wariness of the woman. She evidently did not want to be in the station.

Thursday offered her his hand but she ignored it. “He’s not been home since Monday.” She stated.

“You weren’t concerned when he didn’t come home until now?”

“Yes… I mean no.” She looked at the Inspector warily. “He doesn’t tend to go out and not come back, but...” She hesitated, “but he doesn’t like coppers much. So I thought he might scarper if you came looking after him. But then, as I said, he don’t leave me waiting, and I was worried, so I thought I’d come now.”

“What can you tell us about your husband, his movements on the day you last saw him, favourite haunts? That sort of thing.” Morse asked her.

“He’s an artist. Doesn’t leave the house. Stays out of trouble.” 

“Yet he doesn’t like the police?”

“Your lot banged him up once. It was a complete miscarriage of justice if you ask me, but there you go.” Mrs Kite scowled at Morse.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Kite. I can tell you’re upset.” Thursday soothed. “Hows about we go have a cuppa and I’ll take down some details from you?”

“You’re in charge? I don’t want to talk to some tea-boy.” 

“I’m Detective Inspector Thursday, and this is Detective Constable Morse. DS Jakes you’ve met already.” 

Mrs Kite eyed Morse with suspicion. “I’ll talk to you,” she said to Thursday. “I’ll not talk to that one,” she indicated Morse with an accusing finger. Thursday led her away to another room with an apologetic glance over his shoulder. 

Once they were out of sight Morse let out a breath. “She seems delightful.” Peter laughed “What’s the husbands name? I’ll go see if we’ve got his file.”

Peter checked his notes. “Rhys Kite. Age 49. Of Kendal Street.”

The name hit Morse like a train. _It couldn’t be! How could that be?_ It must be another man with the same name he rationalised. Yet, how many Rhys Kites, aged 49, could there be. He didn’t want to think about it. It must be a mistake. He rushed to cover his shock as best he could. “OK, great, I’ll go check the records then.” He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and left the room as fast as his stiff ankle would allow. Only once he was completely alone in the quiet records room did he let himself panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it just me with the scarves??


	10. Cold Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It keeps growing. But we're finally getting somewhere.

Peter frowned at Morse’s rapidly retreating back. He wasn’t going to shout it to the office that they were now something more than friends, but Morse seemed determined to avoid him now. One second they were talking like usual, the next Morse had practically fled the room. True, he had laughed at Morse’s sarcasm in a way he never would have dared before, but surely that wasn’t enough for the man to leg it as if he had exposed them.

The Inspector was still interviewing Mrs Kite. She hadn’t said he was unwelcome. Maybe he ought to go and join them. He couldn’t help but note how typical it was for Morse to have said just the wrong thing, within moments of meeting the woman, so as to end up barred from the interview. He wasn’t keen to spend any more time with her though so he ruled out going in. Perhaps he could go and ‘help’ Morse check the records. It wasn’t a two man job, but it was rare that two people were ever in that particular department at once, so if they were alone in there together…

He shook off dirty thoughts of cornering Morse in the records room. Maybe he was best staying right here, at his desk, where no one could get the wrong (yet completely right) idea. After ten minutes or so the Inspector escorted Mrs Kite from the building. She looked as suspicious to him now as she had when she’d been shown up by the desk sergeant. Something about her felt wrong to him. He couldn’t say what it was though. She made him feel edgy, nervous, like something terrible was about to happen.

Thursday came directly over and debriefed him. Not that he’d got a whole lot more than he had in the original interview. She had last seen her husband Monday. He had taken a call and left the house, which was extremely unusual behaviour if he wife could be believed. He was an almost reclusive artist. The wife had refused to discuss what he had been imprisoned for, insisting it wasn’t relevant. She hadn’t seen or heard from him since he left the house. She had divulged that he had seemed agitated when he left, but wouldn’t tell her why. Mr Kite had had no visitors for weeks, and had no friends. The only person he saw regularly was his agent, who sold all his works for him.

Peter noted any extra details and began to type everything up while the Inspector updated the boards. There was no way to be certain this was the person that had been struck down, but they had no other leads at all, and the timing seemed right. Thinking of timing turned his mind back to Morse. He had been down in records for much longer than he would have expected. He tried to quell a wave of worry. Surely the man couldn’t get himself into trouble in a police station records room of all places? Yet if anyone could… No, it was just too ridiculous.

What if Morse was avoiding him? Again fear worked away at him. They would have to work things out soon.

After half an hour had passed he was finding it hard to focus on his typing. Where the hell had Morse got to? The Inspector walked over to Morse’s desk, checked some notes that lay there, and then made his way over to Peter’s desk.

“Any idea where Morse has got to?”

“Records.” He hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but his worry was making him irritable.

Thursday raised an eyebrow at the curt reply, but thankfully didn’t pull him up on it.“When did he go?”

“Right after you left with Mrs Kite.” He didn’t look up from the notes in front of him. The need to preserve some kind of facade of indifference warring with the growing concern he felt.

“How long can it take to look up one set of records?” Thursday looked at his watch. “That’s got to be at least half an hour. I need to know what this Kite guy’s story is. If there’s nothing local I need him back here calling it in to national so we can see if its related at all.”

“I’ll go check on what the hold up is.” He was glad of an excuse to go and put a stop to the pointless thoughts that were plaguing him.

“Try to go easy on him,” Thursday warned, “he’s had a rough couple of days, and you’d do well to remember that’s at least partially your fault.” 

Peter nodded in reply. He couldn’t bring himself to talk. He really needed no reminders of how much Morse’s current state was down to him. He was a professional when it came to self-blame, and guilt.

The records room was in the basement. The cold and damp stole away all the warmth from his muscles, leaving him even more tired than ever. His footsteps echoed in the dimly lit space. They were the only sounds he could hear. He checked the entire room several times over, but it was definitely empty. A single record card sat on the desk. It was the one Morse had come for. He picked up Rhys Kite’s index card and turned it over in a vain quest for answers. He had found the card, and then what? Morse was not here. Where had he gone…?

~~~~~~

After his initial panic eased, Morse set to checking the records. He found the card easily. There was only one Rhys Kite. He held the index card for a long time before reading it. The chill of the basement was filling his bones. This couldn’t be happening. When he finally read the card he felt numb. Rhys Kite’s full records weren’t in Oxford. There was only a note from when the man had been discharged from prison to live in Carterton with his fiancée. The stark typed date of the entry imprinted itself into his soul.

He had only served 6 years. 

He hadn’t even left home when this man walked free. 

He had been fighting to stay alive long enough to find Haven, and this man had walked straight into a home, a marriage, a life.

He had unknowingly followed him when he came to Oxford. They could have crossed in the street, and never known. No. He would have known. He could close his eyes and see all their faces even now. He saw their faces in his sleep all too often.

He sat there for some time, letting his mind drift and the cold settle back into his heart. The sound of a door banging down the hall roused him from his blank state. 

He needed to get out of this place.

~~~~~~

Even with his limp, he made quick progress through the street. He was driven by the only feelings that currently could tear through the drowning numbness; fear and fury.

There were spaces in his time. First he was walking the streets near the station. Next he was on a bus. Then he was walking again, further out of town. The gaps between these things were chasms he couldn’t answer to. 

He wasn’t really conscious of where he was going until he found himself outside the hotel Callista had been staying in. He stared up at the bland building. It wasn’t exactly the kind of place he would have expected for her. Not that he really had a lot to go on. It had been so long since they really knew each other. So long since she was like a sister to him.

The hotel’s receptionist wouldn’t let him up to her room, even when he showed his police warrant card, but she did agree to send a porter to check if Callista was in. She tried to draw Morse on the gossip she believed he held on the dragon. Why did the police want to talk to her? Had she done something? What had she done? Morse met all her questions with stony silence, until she eventually gave up.

Callista appeared from the stairwell not long after the receptionist had given up on quizzing him. Their eyes met. There was a darkness in her expression that he recognised all too well. He knew now why he had come here.

“Callista. We need to talk.”

“I tried to tell you that before. Come on,” she walked out the door of the hotel. Morse followed her mutely.

They walked together in silence for several minutes. “Where are we going?” He asked. Callista shot him an aggrieved look and stopped.

“I thought you might have some idea. You are the local after all.”

Morse looked around to get his bearings. They were only a short distance from his flat. That would have to do. “This way.”

~~~~~~

Peter took the record card up to the Inspector. His first instinct had been to search the station for Morse, but he had to keep up their act. Morse was known for wandering off when he had ideas after all. Maybe something on the card had sparked an idea and, like the loveable idiot he was, he had gone off to check on it by himself. _He’s a dragon. He can surely take care of himself._ He forcibly reminded himself. Yet, he was also Morse, who landed himself in danger and got himself injured seemingly every other case. He sighed and tried to think rationally.

“No Morse?” Thursday asked as he handed the card over. 

“The card was out but there was no sign of him down there.” 

“That’s odd.” The Inspector frowned and looked around the room, as if expecting him to be casually sat at his desk.

“Probably off chasing shadows again.” He lit a cigarette to keep his nervous hands occupied.

“Hmmm… well, get him to check in with me when he decides to show up.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Thursday looked the card over. “Give national records a call and see if you can’t get Kite’s full records sent over, asap.” 

“Yes, Sir.”

The call to national records was a welcome distraction. Nothing like a good dose of bureaucracy to occupy the mind. He jumped through all the hoops set before him and eventually got someone to agree to send the full records. As soon as he put the receiver down his mind was straight back to Morse. He looked around the office but he still wasn’t back. A newly discovered level of worry set in. His heart beat too fast. 

Damn it. 

They had barely formed any kind of relationship, not even said it _was_ a relationship, and now he was acting like a broody teenager. Morse would be fine. This sort of thing happened all the time. The only difference now was that he had fallen in love.

~~~~~~

They sat in his small kitchen clutching cups of black tea. There was still no milk. Callista looked around and sniffed judgementally.

“Endeavour, darling, this place is revolting.”

“Are we really going to make small talk about my flat? Or are we going to get to the point? And its Morse now. Just Morse.”

“I wouldn’t call the disgust I wish to express over this… hovel ‘small talk’, but yes, let us get to the point.” She stared at him with the same intensity that he remembered from childhood.

“There’s been a dragon strike. We don’t know the victim. Not exactly”

Callista swore in a language he had tried to forget. He wanted not to understand her, but it sang to him in a way other languages didn’t. Her eyes flashed dangerously but she didn’t look away from him.

“There’s also been a report of a missing person.”

“Oh?” Her feigned nonchalance was a poor act.

“Do I need to say the name, or can we stop pretending you don’t know something about what is going on here?” He met her gaze evenly. When she didn’t reply he shifted his eyes to dragon form. Callista sighed.

“Damn it Endeavour. I… what am I supposed to do?”

“Did you kill him?”

“What?! No! No, of course not! I would happily see them dead, but to actually kill someone… No.” Claw like nails bit into his kitchen table. An idle part of him looked on to the situation and wondered how he would explain away claw marks on his table.

“Then who?” He thought he ought to feel relief it hadn’t been Callista, but all he felt was that same fear. Callista knew something. She knew who had done this. There were only a handful of possibilities, and he would hate for it to have been any one of those.

“Endeavour-”

“Call me Morse, _please._ ”

Callista still did not break eye contact with him. He wanted to look away. The pity in her eyes was terrible. “Constance would never forgive me if I started calling you that. So I won’t, Endeavour. You’ll always be that to me.”

“My mother is dead. Her opinion is irrelevant.” Somewhere, so very deep down, his words hurt even him.

 _”Irrelevant? Allgods! How long have you been like this Endeavour?”_ Callista spoke in the old language again. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He knew _exactly_ what she meant.

“How long since you had Haven? How long _Endeavour?_ ”

He took another deep breath and opened his eyes again, “since Heartland.” 

“WHAT?!” Callista’s eyes were wide with shock. “ _Please_ tell me you’re not serious love? No one can last that long without Haven!”

“What about you?” He deflected. 

Callista seemed to consider if she should answer but then replied, “I was lost for a long time. You know how my parents were. When I came to Heartland Constance saved me. She was like a mother to me. I loved her as one. After… it was hard. I built myself a veritable library but you know its not enough. Luckily I met Oliver. We settled in Scotland. Everything was good. He died a couple of years ago.” 

“Then…?” Morse frowned “Since then you’ve been without? You don’t seem like it.”

“That’s because I haven’t” For the first time Callista looked away from him. “I… I had a call. It wasn’t long after. Aurora.” Morse’s heart skipped a beat. No. Of all of them. Not her. “She had nowhere to go when she got out. At first it was just solace. Then it became something much more. I thought we were happy. But she became obsessed. They got out so early you see. After all they did. They got out and got to live their lives while she was stuck in a prison. If it hadn’t been for the special unit, I doubt she would have survived.”

“It was her, then. She killed Kite.”

“I...” Callista looked back to him. Her eyes were bright with tears. “I don’t know. She vanished last week. I woke and she was gone. I found her notebook and came after her to try and stop her.”

“Did you find her?”

“No.”

“She found him though.” He didn’t know what to think. He had thought so many times about what he should have done to the men who killed his mother and the others, they had caused so much pain, yet he would rather they rotted in jail the rest of their lives. Death was too easy.

“What about Sanders?”

“Sanders… but...” He had only just come to terms with the idea that Kite had got out so early. He hadn’t stopped to consider Sanders. 

“He’s in Oxford too.” Callista’s face was tight with worry. 

“We haven’t had any other reports.” He wanted to feel something, but it was like he was growing colder by the minute.

“I have to find her, Endeavour. She’s… she did so much for us. It wasn’t her fault… Her parents… apart from Constance you know they were the best of us. She can’t go back to jail. Its just not fair.”

“What else can we do, Cal?” He unknowingly slipped back to using the name he had for her when she had been like a sister to him. For a moment it was like the years had never passed. “Aurora killed someone. When this gets out...” 

“I know… but please, Endeavour,” Callista reached out and took his hand, “please promise me you’ll try and help her. If you can. We both know what happened before was wrong. She was just a child, mad with grief, and they were murdering bastards.”

“Cal-”

“ _Please._ ”

He sighed, what was the point any more, whatever happened now it could only end badly. “I’ll try, Cal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are not enough hugs in this for my liking. For all it throws my plan off I do like it when they misbehave.


	11. Not Waving but Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. I'm getting to the more heavy bits now and its taking a bit longer to write them.

Morse had finally returned to the office sometime after lunch. Thursday had sent Peter out to interview Kite’s agent after his break, so he was not in when Morse got back. The interview had been a waste of time. The man was exceptionally arrogant and held a belief that Kite was some kind of, as yet unacknowledged, genius. He avoided any direct questions and declared that Kite had most likely gone away to ‘seclude himself in an environment conducive to a higher form of art’. He marked him down as a suspect mostly out of a distaste for the man. He used long words as barbs and to elevate himself above the lowly station he imagined for Peter. Morse used many of the same long words, but Peter knew he only did it because he was too obtuse to realise it annoyed other people who didn’t know what he was on about.

He had so many questions for Morse, who was now sat at his desk typing away at the pace of an arthritic bird, but he didn’t get to ask any of them. Morse was worryingly pale. The cut on his head stood out, livid, and angry. His hair was almost fiery in the bright lighting of the office. Peter’s breath caught in his throat. Something was seriously wrong. 

After debriefing with Thursday, he walked over as casually as he could, hands deep in his pockets, hiding their tremors. He waited for Morse to comment on his presence behind him as he had taken to doing recently. When he didn’t say anything, he finally cleared his throat and asked, “Where’d you get to earlier?” Some of his concern leaked into his voice but it came out more annoyed than fretting.

“Followed up on a lead.” Morse replied but did not look up from his typing. His voice was as pale and distant as his expression.

“Didn’t bother telling anyone as usual?” He prodded. If he could rile him, he would get at least some kind of a reaction. Morse ignored him and carried on typing. “You could’ve brought up the card at least before you legged it. I had to call national records thanks to you.” Still nothing. “Who’d you go see then?”

“I’m writing it up now.” Morse still stared at the typewriter impassively. He fought down an urge to shake him and demand he snap out of whatever this was.

“At that pace I’ll find out next year. Go on. Spill.” He tried for a more friendly, joking, tone.

Morse sighed and finally stopped typing. “I went to see Cal.” 

“Cal?” He couldn’t place the name at first. Then the figure of very sensual dragon lady stepped into his thoughts. “You mean that _Callista_ dragon from the other day? You went to see her? _Alone?_ ” 

“She’s my friend, Sergeant. I was perfectly safe.” 

He didn’t know what was worse, Morse calling him by his title, the sting of jealousy he felt about Callista, or the pure ice in Morse’s voice.

“What did you have to talk to her about then?” He was completely adrift now. What was happening? Yes, they were in the office, he couldn’t take Morse’s hand and ask him what was wrong, but right now it felt like Morse hated him, and he couldn’t take it.

Morse didn’t reply, he merely typed a few more words, removed the sheet of paper from the typewriter, and handed it over to Peter. He skim read it quickly. Morse claimed in it that he had spoken with Callista on a one to one basis to see if she would confide in him more as an old friend, but she had nothing to report. It was devoid of any real content. It was a lie. He looked up to Morse and tried to fathom what had happened. _What if she hurt him? What if she means something to him, something more than me…?_

“I have an appointment with Dr Debryn.” Morse stated as he gathered up his jacket and coat. “Let me know if you need anything else from me when I return.” He turned and left without another word to Peter. His scarf was abandoned on the back of his chair.

He wanted to call out, call him back. He wanted to go back to the safe space they had created this morning where words flowed easily and honestly between them. How could these tides of feeling change in so short a space of time? Morse looked like he was drowning, but he was too far away, so very far away.

~~~~~~

Morse was glad to escape the station. The other officers were laughing at him for having got hurt yet again. It was like a constant ringing at the back of his mind. It was marginally better than when they had been mouthing off about dragons though. And then there was Peter. He so desperately wanted to be with the man. He wanted to find somewhere safe and never leave his side again. The problem was he knew how bad what was headed their way could be. He couldn’t put Peter through that. He wouldn’t risk him. So instead he let himself sink deeper into the numbness that called to him and pushed Peter as far away as he could.

Memories he had tried to forget tormented him constantly. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their dreadful faces, and his mother’s cold, deathly still, body.

He felt like this was the closest he had been to losing himself for years. The only thing keeping him anchored was Peter, and that was the very thing he needed to distance himself from. There was a chasm in his chest where his heart should be, and it was bitterly cold.

Debryn was busy when he arrived so he let him know he was there and retreated to his office. He picked up a book from the shelves and flipped through it absently. This was the last place he had wanted to come. To be around so much death made his head spin. The only reason he had come was because he knew how tenacious Max could be when he wanted. If Morse missed an appointment that he had agreed to, he had little doubt the Doctor would be on his doorstep when he got home, demanding to know what excuse he had. 

“Ah, Morse, there you are.” Max spoke from the doorway. His gaze was assessing. Morse knew he ought to try a little harder to act normally, but he was just so damn tired. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He smiled at Morse, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You look tired.”

“I’d claim lack of sleep, but we both know that would be unlikely in the circumstances.” He tried, and failed, to make it sound light-hearted.

“Indeed. I believe I made my feelings on your stupidity pretty clear this morning. Any ill effects?”

“Apart from a full night’s sleep, and a Detective Sergeant on my sofa? None.” He sat down and Max began looking over the cut to his head. 

“Morse, we both know you don’t own a sofa.” Max said softly as he cleaned the cut. Morse’s stomach sank. How did Max always see through him? “Right, this could still do with airing, so I’ll not dress it. I’ll change the bandages on your wrist and ankle, then you’re free to go.”

“Max…” 

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me, Morse.” Max gave him a kind smile and began on the bandages. “To be honest, I’d hoped you’d found some happiness there, but you seem even more morose than usual today. Did things not work out?”

“Its… I…” Morse struggled to find the right words, bewildered by Max’s directness. “I’d rather not talk about… about… that.”

Max sighed and finished off the last of the bandaging. “I can see that. However, I can also see that not talking is doing you no good at all. Call me. Please. Any time you feel like doing yourself the favour of taking some of the weight of the world off your shoulders. I can promise you, whatever you’ve got to say, it won’t shock me, and I won’t judge.”

“I’m fine, Max, honestly.”

“You keep saying that, but it never gets any more true.”

Their eyes met. They were equally stubborn he realised. Max was a good friend. He could do worse than to talk to him. He did _want_ to talk. If only it wasn’t such a risk. 

“Thank you, Max. For checking this over.” He waved his bandaged wrist indicating his multitude of injuries. 

Thankfully Max took the hint, and left off the topic. “Yes, well… I’d like you to pop by again a couple more times. It is only bruising but its severe so I want to keep an eye on the healing.”

There was a knock on the office door. Morse forced a smile and excused himself as one of Debryn’s colleagues came in with a stack of forms. The walk back to the open air took too long. He was suffocating in the hopeless sterile walls of the hospital. Once outside he drew in deep lungfuls of the sharp air. It was freezing, but so was he.

~~~~~~

It was late by the time he got back to the station. Most of the other officers had cleared out but Thursday was still in his office and Peter was sat at his desk, smoking. He looked up hopefully as Morse came in. There was a brief flare of hope in the cold, but he couldn’t allow that to distract him. He still didn’t know what he would do, but he had promised Callista he would protect Aurora if he could, and that could be dangerous for many more than just himself. He forced himself to look away without acknowledging Peter.

After an hour or so of trawling reports from uniformed officers who had been canvassing the area of the strike he was thoroughly exhausted. He was all too conscious of Peter staring at his back. Several times he nearly slipped and turned but he managed to hold out. Eventually Peter packed up and moved to go home. 

“You going to go home any time today?” Peter asked. Morse glanced up at him and almost changed his mind at his expression. He hated that he was the cause of the pain he saw there. 

“I’m finishing these up first. I’ll see you tomorrow Sergeant.” 

“Right. Tomorrow.” Peter muttered. He hesitated, as if waiting for Morse to change his mind, then gave up and left. Morse watched him go. He held his breath, hoping that Peter would turn around and come back for him, but he just carried on out of the room, not looking back even once.

“Morse?” He turned to see Thursday in the doorway to his office.

“Yes, Sir?” 

“I saw your report. You went to interview a dragon earlier.” Thursday asked.

Now that he thought about it he wasn’t sure why he had written up their meeting at all. He had worried when he got in about the receptionist at the hotel. She had been so nosy and seen his warrant. “Callista, yes, she’s an old friend.”

“Yes, I gathered that from your nonsense of a report. I’m probably wasting my breath but tell someone where you’re going, and take back up next time. You got the report I asked you for about the thug you so cleverly took on?”

“I… Not yet, sorry.” He had started it that morning but it had gone out of his mind after Mrs Kite had turned up.

Thursday sighed. “Of course not. Have it ready for me tomorrow, OK?” He nodded his agreement. “Come on lad, get yourself home.”

“I’ll just-”

“No ‘just’. Home. Now. It’ll be a long day tomorrow.”

Morse frowned, “How so?”

“I’m going to have to release the details to the press. There’s no way we can keep this under wraps any longer.” Thursday said with a frown. “We’ll have to batten down the hatches. With no arrests I suspect there’ll be a fair backlash. I’d tell your old friend to keep her head down if I were you.” Thursday picked up his hat and coat from the stand and made his way out. “Home, Morse,” he called back as he left.

Morse leaned back against his desk heavily. His hands shook. Once the press knew… It would be carnage. More innocent lives lost for the sake of naught other than fear. He swore in the old language. He hadn’t spoken it in years, and now the first thing he did was to swear. Head in his hands, he thought of how history seemed to repeat itself endlessly. He wondered what he should do. It all seemed so hopeless. 

He looked up at Peter’s empty desk. Why could nothing ever be simple? He gathered up his coat from the stand and his jacket from the back of his chair. Something dropped to the floor. He bent, careful not to aggravate his bruising, and picked it up. The soft fabric against his skin broke through some of the wall he had built up. It was the scarf Peter had given him. Holding it close, he tried to find a way through the fog in his mind.

~~~~~~

Peter paced his small, but meticulously kept, flat. What the hell had he been thinking, getting involved with a dragon? No, what had he been thinking getting involved with _Morse?_ Why would the man tell him all those things and then treat him like shit all day? Was Morse hurting? Or had he just wanted to hurt Peter in return for the harm he had caused him? None of it made any sense.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Peter stopped his pacing and glared at the door. Rent wasn’t due for another week. No one else but the landlady ever called on him. Who could be come calling at this hour?

He marched over and opened the door. Whoever he might have been expecting, it wasn’t the man who stood before him, his red-gold hair bright in the light of the corridor. 

“Morse?” 

“Peter. Can I come in?” Morse’s voice shook and his expression was pained.

He wanted to say no, to stop this madness while he still could, but his heart was breaking at the pain in Morse’s face. He stepped from the doorway and indicated for him to come in. Morse moved into the flat hesitantly, his limp more pronounced than earlier. Peter closed the door behind him. 

“How did you know where I lived?” He asked.

Rather than reply, Morse merely looked around at the flat. The silence was awkward. He wanted to shake him out of the strange mood he had fallen into so he placed a hand on Morse’s shoulder. Morse turned back to Peter and their eyes met. The next thing Peter knew Morse was kissing him with an urgency he didn’t understand. Morse’s hands were on his back and in his hair. He knew he should pull away, find out what was going on, but he was lost to the touch of those sensual hands. 

It felt like he was drowning in Morse’s touch. Morse pulled frantically first at his own jacket and shirt, and then Peter's, until they were pressed together, skin to skin. His heart was beating so fast. There were so many things he should do, but right now he was in the arms of the man he loved, so instead he gave in to the desperation with which Morse kissed him.

~~~~~~

Hours later, as they lay tangled together among the soft sheets of Peter's bed, Morse wondered what he had done. He should have just gone home. Why had he come here? He breathed in deeply, reveling in the natural scent of Peter beneath the familiar tang of smoke and cologne. He knew now this had been a big mistake. Falling in love was the worst possible thing he could do when he was trying to keep Peter safe.

Everyone he ever loved left him. Now it was ironic that he had fallen in love, and he was going to be the one doing the leaving. 

Slowly, carefully, he separated himself from Peter's sleeping form. As he dressed, as quietly as he could, he saw Peter reach out in his sleep, instinctively seeking the warmth of Morse's body. He stirred slightly and mumbled in his sleep, clutching the sheets to him in the absence of the other body that had so recently occupied his bed. Morse watched him settle back to sleep.

 _"I love you, Peter."_ He whispered, then he gathered his coat and left.

As the door to the flat closed quietly behind him, he didn't hear Peter sigh in his sleep _"I love you too."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Morse. And poor Peter. What are they doing to themselves. So. Much. Angst.
> 
> Anyway, you're going to have to use your imagination here (unless someone else fills in the gap). I really can't write sexy times very well at all. Especially the not-talking, distress-and-pain-filled, coping-mechanism kind of sexy-times. Sorry folks.


	12. We Could Leave Right Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title, and some of the mood/imagery are inspired by a song of the same name by Oysterband.

An alarm dragged Peter from the comfortable depths of sleep. He reached out to silence it, then lay there with his eyes still closed, slowly working his way to full consciousness. He’d had such an intense dream last night. Morse had been there, and he was all kisses, and tender hands, and – 

Peter’s eyes flew open and his other arm reached out to the other side of the bed. Nothing. Morse _had_ been here! They had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. Where was he now? 

“Morse?” he called out. There was no reply. He got out of bed quickly, disentangling himself from the web of sheets he had created in his sleep. The bathroom and main room were both empty of red-haired dragons. His clothes were also gone. Morse had left. 

In a kind of desperation, he went back to the bedroom and looked around for a note. When he didn’t find anything there, he checked the rest of the flat. Surely Morse wouldn’t have just left him, without so much as a word, after last night? He made his way to the phone. When his hand was on the receiver he stopped. Where was he calling? Who was he calling? Morse seemed to have left of his own accord. He couldn’t exactly call the Inspector to demand he track down Morse at this time of the morning and make sure he was safe simply because he had been run out on after sex.

He needed to get ready for work, but he felt cast adrift by Morse’s departure. Last night he hadn’t got any answers to the questions the day had brought. Now he had even more. What was he to this man? Was Morse just _using_ him? No. No, he was sure that couldn’t be right. Why would he have spoken about his past and all that other stuff if he was nothing to him? Yet, if it had meant something to him, then surely Morse wouldn’t have left like that either.

Peter set the kettle boiling. He needed coffee. Trying to think about the day ahead as he went about his morning routine got him nowhere. His thoughts invariably looped back to Morse. An odd thought occurred to him; he had just slept with someone and he didn’t know their first name… He warmed his hands around the mug of coffee. The steam rising from the mug was thick and opaque. It reminded him of the curl of smoke from a cigarette, or... _He had just slept with a dragon._

The thought was… strange. Years ago he might have bragged about it. He wasn’t going to complain exactly, it had been good, more than good, but it hadn’t been what he had expected. Morse had been unfailingly sensual and attentive, but he had also seemed distant and… He couldn’t quite place what it was exactly that had unnerved him so. He came back to the thoughts he had had the day before and then it struck him – Morse had reminded him of patients he had seen in a hospice. He had that same resignation about him, like he had been sentenced to death and saw no way out of it…

Peter got up, and grabbed together a suit, stuffing the tie in his pocket to save time. He hurried out the door to the station. His coffee, forgotten on the table, went cold.

~~~~~~

Morse sat at his desk in the station. He had got there before the dawn. The duty officer had given him a funny look but hadn’t commented. He knew he had a reputation for odd behaviour so beating the sun to the office was probably one of the lesser social norms he had ever defied.

He didn’t know what he was doing here. There was nothing could be solved from a desk. It felt safe though, a kind of refuge from the day that was coming. Thursday would talk to the papers and then everything would go to hell. Then maybe he would find Aurora, and hell might suddenly seem a relatively cool place to reside.

Long before he usually would, he checked out a car to collect the Inspector. He didn’t drive there directly, but rather wound his way around the city. Eventually he stopped down by the river and watched the sun rise. The sky was saturated with reds and pinks as though it had been stained by blood.

When it was finally time, he drove on to the Thursdays. He sat outside in the car for a few minutes. Nothing good would come of this day. The sooner he picked the Inspector up the sooner it would begin. He sighed and got out, made his way to the door, went to knock, but the door opened before him. Thursday stood before him, his face set and tired. 

For one mad moment he contemplated telling him the truth, the whole sorry story, but then he thought of Peter’s face just a couple of days before when he had found out, and Susan’s years before, both so appalled at what he was. He had longed for the domestic ease of the Thursday’s for so long, had even dared to sometimes imagine what it would be like to be a part of that, to have a real family. He couldn’t quite bring himself to destroy that dream, no matter how unobtainable.

“Morse.” Thursday picked his hat up from the stand in the hall. “Thought I’d heard a car. Were you planning to sit around there all morning?”

“Sorry, Sir. I was just thinking.”

“Of course you were. Now, lets get on shall we? Busy day ahead.” Thursday called his farewells back to his family and ushered Morse back out to the car. “You look tired,” he commented as they walked down the path. “More than usual,” he added with a half laugh, “and that suit looks like it could’ve done with meeting an iron. I hope you didn’t sleep in the station?”

“No, I went home.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Peter felt more and more like home to him these days. “Just didn’t sleep so well,” his face twisted into a grimace.

Thursday sighed, “I can understand that. Didn’t sleep that well myself.”

~~~~~~

The drive back to the station was over far too quickly. As they walked from the car to the station his eyes tracked the paths of birds as they rose into the cold air of the morning. He envied them the ease with which the spread their wings. He hadn’t flown in so many years. He wondered what it would feel like now. Would he even remember how? He longed to feel clouds against his skin, to forget his name, to not leave a trace as he flew away from all of this.

“Morse?” Thursday called back to him. He realised he had been stood in the car park, staring up at the sky. Swiftly he shook off the thoughts of leaving, and followed the Inspector into the building. 

Inside, things were chaotic. The sound hit him like a wall as the doors opened. Peter was shouting orders as uniformed officers struggled with three large men. One had a broken nose, the blood spilled down his face and shirt was dry, so evidently it had happened some time before. He sensed another dragon presence and turned to locate it. In the corner of the room a young woman was pressed back against the wall, Trewlove had one hand on her shoulder and was talking to her quietly. She had one black eye, a split lip, and bruised knuckles that told a story he’d rather not read. She sensed his presence in turn and looked from Trewlove. Their eyes met, hers burned a pale copper colour. She frowned in confusion. Trewlove followed her gaze and nodded an acknowledgement at Morse as she saw him.

Morse turned back to the rapidly escalating situation. Peter’s attention was distracted from the thug he was trying to book. He couldn’t have said what it was he was thinking exactly, but he knew it was not good. _Very not good._

“What’s going on here?” Thursday lifted his voice to be heard above the racket. 

Peter jumped and quickly looked back to Thursday. “These three... er... men were brought in by uniform for assaulting the young lady in the corner.” He stuttered. Morse frowned in concern, he was missing something here.

“She’s no woman. That… that _thing_ is a bloody dragon. She damn well deserved it!” The largest of the three spat as he turned to Inspector Thursday. Morse got a proper look at him for the first time, and nearly lost what little control he had remaining. It was the same three men that had attacked him. 

They hadn’t noticed him yet - _he had to get out of here now!_

It was too late. The man turned to shout at Morse too but was brought up short when he saw him. His eyes were wide in recognition and his mouth gaped. 

“Dragon or no, you’ve no right to beat up innocent folks, now SETTLE DOWN!” Thursday bellowed from what felt like several miles away. There was a ringing in Morse’s ears again. He had known that today was going to be bad, but not so soon.

 _”You HIRE them?! You have that scum in the POLICE?!”_ The man screamed.

Thursday looked from him to Morse and back, before laughing. “Whilst we have no rules against dragons in the police, I can assure you that DC Morse is most definitely human.”

“Oh really? ‘Cause that’s not what his _boyfriend_ was yelling at him in the street the other day!” The man curled his lip in disgust and spat at Morse. He felt like he had lost his voice. The words that usually came to him so easily had deserted him, so he stood there, frozen and mute. 

Thursday frowned, “what are you talking about?”

The man ignored the Inspector and instead continued to sneer at Morse. “I should have done for you then and there,” he said with contempt.

“Clear them out of here, Sergeant.” Thursday called to Peter, but he didn’t take his eyes off Morse. 

“But, Sir-” Peter started to argue.

“NOW!” 

At that Peter resumed his ordering of the uniformed officers, getting them to practically drag the three men from the entrance to the station. Remarkably, they didn’t seem to recognise Peter at all, and for that Morse was eternally grateful. This was it for him, but at least Peter would be safe.

“Trewlove, could you see the victim through to an interview room, please?” Thursday said to Shirley. His voice was quieter, but no less dangerous than it had been before. He turned and strode from the room in the direction of their department and his office. “Morse, with me,” he called back.

Trewlove shot him a concerned look and then lead the you dragon away. For a moment he was still frozen to the spot, then his feet began to move, following in Thursday’s wake. It felt like he was looking down on the scene from above. This couldn’t be happening.

Thursday was facing away from him when he reached his office, his hands were firmly grasped behind his back.

“Sir, I can explain-” he began.

“Of course you can. You’ve always got an excuse for everything. Let me guess, this time its a case of mistaken identity? Only you’ve got the bruises that say otherwise. So, what then? They misunderstood? Your _boyfriend_ had the wrong idea?” His voice was scarily even and icy cold. He didn’t turn around to look at Morse as he spoke.

“He… he wasn’t my boyfriend, and… yes… it was a misunderstanding.” It felt like someone else was answering, someone else speaking. His voice was almost mechanical. He was so completely disconnected now.

The Inspector turned around. Morse willed him to turn away again. He had expected Thursday to shout, to throw his anger at him forcibly, to act the way he had seen so many times before when he was enraged. The quiet fury he found instead could’ve killed him where he stood.

“So you’re _not_ a dragon then?”

“I...” he wanted to lie, needed to, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The futility of the situation stopped his falsity in it’s tracks. 

When he failed to speak Thursday simply said, “I need to go and deal with the victim. Wait here. I’ll deal with you after.” He pushed past Morse and out of the office. Morse watched him go. What little there was left of his heart he felt burning up, the ashes grew cold, and heavy, deep within his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AARGH! SORRY!
> 
> Things are really going to get moving now. I think I've got around 5 chapters left if this doesn't get out of hand again. I should know more in a couple of chapters time.


	13. Fear of Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm on track for another 4 chapters after this, so we're heading towards the end.

The last place Peter wanted to be was booking in the bastards that had hurt his Morse. No matter what last night had been all about, he still cared for him, still loved him. He hadn’t intended it, but just as he hadn’t chosen to begin loving him, he equally couldn’t just decide to stop. 

He took little delight in shutting them in the cells. He wasn’t normally a violent man, but right now he wanted to beat these three tossers until they begged to apologise. When Morse had told him he had been attacked he had imagined the worst. What he hadn’t imagined was the scum he had just locked up. He hadn’t imagined them at the size, and build, of mercenaries.

Some part of him was glad they didn’t recognise him. He was sure they would have made it plain if they did. It was more than likely that men that violently attacked dragons for being what they were would be just as averse to his own inclinations, regardless of his being human. The rest of him felt guilty that Morse was now suffering yet again as a result of _his_ actions and he was getting none of it.

The gossip in the corridors as he made his way through the station was all about Morse. There had only been a handful of officers in that room – how had it spread this fast? He had begun noticing the callous things people said about Morse after his return. After being falsely accused, then found innocent, he had been accepted more than before, but he was still a target for the rumour mill. Peter hadn’t liked hearing those things, especially knowing he had said much the same before, but he’d been able to ignore it and pretend it didn’t matter. Now though… 

He realised he had never really noticed how vicious and cruel the language used about dragons could be. It was one thing knowing about the violence meted out against dragons after the war, it was another thing to realise that might happen to someone completely innocent, someone he loved. He needed to get to Morse and… _and then what?_

The muttering was silenced as Inspector Thursday strode down the corridor. 

“Jakes, with me.”

“But I need-”

Thursday cut him off. “I don’t care what you need Sergeant. I need to interview the victim and get them out of here before things get nasty.” He continued on down the corridor to the interview rooms. Peter thought about ignoring the order and going to see Morse anyway, but then he thought of the young woman who had been hurt, and the brutes that had done that to her and to Morse. He turned and followed the Inspector, casting a regretful look over his shoulder.

~~~~~~

No one came near him as he sat at his desk, staring blankly at his typewriter. The rest of CID remained at the far end of the room, gathered into small groups. He knew they were talking about him and he knew what they would be saying. He had heard it all before.

Sometimes he had thought that things were bad here in Oxford, or in the police in general, but really they hadn’t been so terrible. He knew how much worse it could get. His aching, bruised, body was testament to that. Now he was staring at what would surely be the end of his time here, and he knew he didn’t want to be over.

A different tone of voice caught his attention and he looked up. Trewlove was elbowing her way through the crowd of officers. One of the officers laughed, until he met her furious expression.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” She demanded of the officer, loudly, and bluntly. “We have got several cases, _important cases_ , you could be working on rather than standing around gossiping like schoolgirls.”

“What is it to you _WPC_?” The officer, Halverson, looked down at the shorter woman with a sneer. When she failed to look away, and just continued to stare at him stubbornly, he eventually shrugged and wandered off. “Didn’t want to hang around here anyway did we lads. It’s got a bit exotic for my liking.” The others laughed and followed him as he exited the room. 

Shirley made her way over to him. “Are you OK?” She glanced back at the departing officers with disdain. 

He was lost for words. Shirley had been there in reception. She had heard. She knew. Why was she here talking to him the way she would any other day? “What?”

“I said, are you OK?” She repeated with a roll of the eyes. When he continued to stare blankly at her she dragged over another chair and sat down next to him at his desk. “You look like shit, Morse.” 

“Aren’t you worried to be seen talking to me?” He hadn’t meant it to sound so bitter.

“No. They can think what they want. If they start up about this, at least it’ll be a change from all the things they say because I’m a woman. Besides, you’re my friend, and you look like you need help, so I’m here.”

“But… you did understand, right? What happened back there?” He still couldn’t believe she was doing this.

“I’m not an idiot, Morse,” she glanced back to the now empty room before continuing, “and I’ve known for ages that you’re a dragon.” She smiled at him reassuringly.

The ground beneath him seemed to slip away. “What? How?” _What was going on?_

Shirley looked down at her hands and considered before looking back and answering him. “My father died before I was born. My mother met someone else after. She had her own children, a boy and a girl. They live together as ‘sisters’. They raised us together so they were like my brother and sister. They’re like you, dragons, so I know what to look for.”

“Oh.” He wanted to say more, but his mind was strangely blank, completely thrown off course by this unexpected turn.

“I talked to my sister last time she visited. She said I was wrong because you’d lived alone so long. Then she came to pick me up from work one day, and you left the same time… so I knew for sure from then.”

“You never said anything?” Why hadn’t she asked him about it?

“No. I figured it was your secret. Plus I’ve seen what people can get like. My brother got outed. It wasn’t pretty, he had to leave the town he was living in, but he’s made a good life for himself and his wife over in France. They know what he is there, and they don’t care.” She smiled at him again. “I was so happy for him. He was so… faint, distant, for a while. Like he was fading away. You look like that now.” There was nothing he could say to that, so instead he looked away. Shirley stood, reached out, and squeezed his shoulder lightly. “Things will come right here, Morse. I know they will. Thursday and Bright both think so highly of you. I don’t see this changing anything. I’ve got to get back now, but please come find me if you need anything.” 

Trewlove left the office and he was alone again. He looked around at the dark, oppressive, walls. They loomed over him, closing in. He needed to get out of here. He needed… 

The phone was ringing. His phone. He stared at it for a moment, trying to remember what he was supposed to do, then picked up the receiver with his good hand. 

“Morse.”

“Endeavour! Its me. Its Cal. I… I need you to get here… _now!_ ” Callista’s voice was urgent and worried. 

“What’s wrong, Cal?”

“I… I think I found her. _Please Endeavour!_ My hotel. Come now.” The line disconnected abruptly. Morse sat there for a minute, receiver still in his hand. He felt like he had just been ordered to his own execution. 

He got to his feet, the pain from his ankle a distant distraction rather than the solid hurt it had been, and made his way out of the CID office, down the back stairs. The corridors here were thankfully empty. He didn’t meet another soul as he left the station for what he realised might be the last time. Looking back up at the building as he left, he searched the windows for Peter’s face, but no one was looking out. 

He would have liked to have seen him one last time.

~~~~~~

The interview had been painful. The young woman had been stressed and more interested in escaping the police station than giving a clear statement. She had been unwilling to give a statement until they had agreed that she could give the evidence anonymously. They had finally got everything written up and signed over an hour later. Between that, and the evidence the uniformed officers that had intervened would give, and Morse’s statement if he’d give it, he was sure they would have enough to bring it to trial.

As they headed back to their office, Thursday was silent and brooding. Peter made the decision there and then that if the Inspector turned on Morse, he would stand by his side. It wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything so wrong. Job be damned. Career be damned. He would be on Morse’s side no matter what, and by his side too, until the very end, if he’d have him.

The CID office was empty. Where were the other officers? _Where the hell had Morse gone?_ For the second time that day Peter was left baffled by his absence.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Thursday demanded of the empty room.

Trewlove appeared in the doorway beside them, clutching a parcel. She frowned at the empty space. Then paled as she took in the Inspector’s expression. “I’m… I’m sorry, Sir. I… They were just standing around, gossiping and… the vile things they were saying. I sort of… told them… implied they ought to get out and get on with some work...” Her voice shook slightly and she held her hands behind her back tightly, but she stood straight and met Thursday's gaze unapologetically. He could just imagine it, this diminutive young woman, facing down the whole of the CID department.

Thursday sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “And I have no doubt they merited meeting with the sharp side of your tongue, but where exactly is Morse?”

Now Trewlove’s frown deepened. “He was here when I left.” She glanced to the empty desk, then to Peter. “I… I’m worried about him.” She said quietly. Her nervousness began to show. “I know dragons, and Morse, I think he’s… ill. Sort of. In the way they get. If you know what I mean.” 

Peter felt sick. He knew exactly what Trewlove meant. He dared a glance at the Inspector and, from the look on his face, he would have guessed that maybe he knew too. No one spoke. They all stood and stared at the empty space, each caught up in their own thoughts.

“What’s the parcel?” Thursday broke the silence. The anger Peter had felt from him before had diffused and left a kind of melancholy in its place.

“Oh!” Trewlove jumped and held out the parcel to Peter. “Express delivery for Sergeant Jakes.”

He took it, confused, and quickly moved to his desk to open it. There were papers inside. Kite’s full records. Yesterday, when he had requested them, felt like years ago. He flipped through a couple of pages and stopped dead at a name on the page. 

_Oh! That would explain it..._

“Jakes?” Thursday was watching him curiously. He shut the file and offered it out to him. Thursday took it but didn’t get further than the first page before sitting down at one of the abandoned desks. “Christ… I should have remembered that name. Of course. Heartland...” 

“You know the case?” He managed to ask.

“Yes. It was the incident that marked the end of the retaliation against dragons.” He shook his head and looked at the file in his hands. 

Trewlove, forgotten until then, spoke up, “Four men broke into a small, peaceful, dragon community. They killed six, including a teenager, and set the place on fire. One of the children went mad and struck down two of them. They sent them all to prison. Even her.” She spoke with a quiet anger. Trewlove was constantly surprising him. How did she know so much about dragons?

As loathe as he was to draw attention to it, he knew Thursday would get there eventually, and the wait was painful, so he cleared his throat and said, “Sir, page 4.”

Thursday shot him a confused look, but opened the report to the relevant page. Peter watched as he skimmed through the dense text. He knew the moment he saw it, the moment it became apparent to him too. 

The list of deceased and the list of survivors. 

In one column Constance Morse, in the other, Endeavour Morse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was the last ending too brutal? If so, I suspect this fixes nothing. NOTHING. AND NO HUGS.


	14. Molten Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if there's a universe where Morse has a fully functional sense of self preservation? Even if there is, this is not it.

Callista was waiting impatiently outside the hotel when he arrived. It had taken longer than he would have liked to get there since he had to take the bus and walk. A couple leaving the hotel gave her a wide berth. He didn’t blame them. Her expression was lethal.

“Endeavour! We need to go. Now!” She set off in the opposite direction, back into the centre of Oxford. He almost had to run to catch up to her, his ankle protesting painfully about the pace.

“Cal! Hold up!” He finally caught up to her and got a hold of her arm. She made a noise of frustration but stopped. “you need to tell me what’s going on, and where we’re going.” She looked at him and some of the fire in here eyes dulled.

“You look… What happened?” She asked.

“There will be time for that later.” At least he hoped there would be. “You said this was urgent. What is going on Cal?”

She blinked and took a deep breath. He noted the heat that rolled off her and knew whatever was coming could not be good. “Sanders. I managed to track him down. He changed his name. He has a shop in town. A jewellers. _Of all things, a damn jewellers._ I called the shop to check I had it right, and the assistant said he wasn’t there. I pretended to be a relative wanting to catch up with him and she said he had just left. She also said a woman had come by earlier. It was Aurora, I’m sure of it!”

“But you don’t know?”

“Well, no, but the assistant… she sounded upset. Said he never goes off like that. She isn’t meant to mind the shop alone.”

“OK, so where are we going?”

“To the shop! We need to track them from there.” Callista set off again at an equally brisk speed.

“Could we not have met there?” He grumbled as he tried to keep up with her.

“I _thought_ you’d have a car.”

“Where is this shop exactly?” 

“High Street, near All Saints.”

He sighed, it would have been much better to have met there. “We’re taking the bus.” He took a side street and cut through to the nearest main road he knew had a bus stop that would take them where they needed. Callista stopped, and for a moment he thought she would object, but then she followed him.

~~~~~~

The journey to the centre of town was awkward. They sat in silence, and very much alone. Other people catching the bus saw Callista and sat as far away as possible. He hadn’t thought about this when he had decided the bus would be quicker (and easier on his tired and aching body). He had been in hiding too long. He would have to get used to this now, the mistrust, the wariness, the outright hatred from some.

Yet, there were also people like Trewlove, and Peter. He had forgotten, after so long pretending to be human, that some folk had no issues with dragons, or could get over them if proven wrong about their assumptions. Maybe the whole community had it wrong. By hiding away they made it look like they were in the wrong, like they could be dangerous, and it meant that when one was outed they were instantly mistrusted for having lied about their identity for so long. If they all lived openly, as they had in times gone by, maybe then people would see the truth. If people knew the truth about Hoarde, Haven, and their innate need to protect perhaps then things would be better. 

Or maybe they would ignore all the evidence and turn on any dragon that was fool enough to live openly. He knew all too well how being easy to find could be deadly for them. Maybe he was just too tainted by the past, too bitter, to ever really trust again.

The bus reached High Street and they got off, much to the relief of the driver. Callista pointedly looked him in the eye and thanked him as they alighted. He wished she hadn’t. Her smile came across more predatory than kind.

The shop front was old fashioned, but in an expensive kind of way. Immaculate black paint with gilt lettering in elaborate script proclaimed the name of the shop, Saunders and Sons, above wide glass windows filled with expensive displays of rings and chains. It made Morse feel sick to think this was what had become of a man who had murdered so many. A small bell chimed as they entered and the woman behind the counter jumped. Morse knew immediately Callista had been right, the assistant was nervous even before she could have noticed what Callista was, something was very wrong here. 

“Hello, can I help you?” She asked with a forced smile.

“Hello,” he tried to sound reassuring, confident even, “my name is Morse. I’m here from the police. I was wondering if I could speak with the owner please?” He held out his warrant card. The woman checked it over thoroughly before answering. Callista shot him a puzzled look but split off to look at the displays on the other side of the shop.

“I’m afraid he’s out presently.”

“Can I ask when you might be expecting him back?”

“I… He…” 

“It is a matter of some urgency. Perhaps I should wait…?” He left the question hang there, knowing it would have the desired effect.

“He went out this morning. This lady was here when I got in. I… I think she was… a dragon. Mr Saunders doesn’t like them. He… he sent me out back. Next thing I know, the bell goes, so I put my head out to check if Mr Saunders needed any help, but it was just the lady leaving. A bit later he says he needs to pop out. He hasn’t come back since. I didn’t know what to do.” She shot Callista a nervous look. “There was this phonecall too. Some ‘relative’ asked a load of questions. I answered her but I don’t think I should’ve done. Is he in trouble? Is Mr Saunders in some kind of trouble?”

“We’re not certain at this point. Do you have any idea where they might have gone? Perhaps something you overheard, purely accidentally of course?”

“I don’t listen in if he tells me he wants to speak to someone in private!” She replied indignantly.

“I am sure you’re perfectly discrete, Miss-?”

“Bird. Anna Bird. And I am. Discrete that is.” She chewed on her lower lip. He knew there was more to it than this. Something she knew, or had heard.

“Thank you, Miss Bird. I… I wonder if I might ask… do _you_ think Mr Saunders is in danger?”

“What? No. I… well… I don’t know I guess. It was all so odd. Maybe I ought to tell you, being police and all.”

“This conversation will remain on a strictly need to know basis. If you did have reason to believe your employer was in some kind of trouble, I would strongly advise you to tell me so that I can take appropriate action.” 

“Oh… Well, if you’re sure...? I just overheard this mind, I wasn’t listening in, but she said they should meet somewhere to talk. She said… I think she said the river by ‘our school’, but Mr Saunders isn’t from Oxford, and he’s no don, so I don’t know what she meant. Sorry.”

“That is most helpful Miss Bird. Thank you for your time.” He turned to leave and, when it looked like Callista might stay on to try and ask Miss Bird more, he caught her by the arm and led her out of the small shop. He was used to playing a part, acting like he was more in control than he was, but this had felt wrong. Yes, the police were investigating this case, but he had kept information from them, and he was pretty sure he was out of a job. 

“Why are we leaving? We need to know more!” Callista was more agitated than ever.

“We know plenty.”

“What do you mean?”

“The river by ‘our’ school? She meant the Dragon School. Over by the Cherwell.”

“Oh!”

“Exactly. We need to get there, quickly. We don’t know when they arranged to meet. It could be too late already.” He didn’t want to think about what would happen if they were too late. At least not any more than he wanted to think about what they would do if they got there soon enough.

~~~~~~

Thursday was as white as a sheet as he stared at the papers in front of him. Peter had read through them alongside him. He had known that Morse had seen his mother murdered, but this? This was horrific. As for Thursday, it was evident how much of a shock it had been to him.

“Why didn’t we ever know? Why wouldn’t the lad have said anything?” 

“I guess doing that would have meant admitting to what he was.”

“He should have told me.” The Inspector’s expression was dark. Peter didn’t want to push him any further so he didn’t ask what he would have done if Morse had told him. They had always seemed close, most of the time anyway, so maybe he would have kept that secret, but if he hadn’t… He could see now why Morse hadn’t told anyone. 

Endeavour… His name really was Endeavour. He could also see why he hadn’t told anyone that. It was so unusual, if he had come across someone in the police that had been on this case they would most certainly have put two and two together. He was sure Morse had said sometime before that he had only gone by Morse for longer than that though. Maybe he just didn’t like it. It was a shame really, because he rather did like it. It suited him. It was better than something boring like Peter. 

He shook himself. Now was not the time to be mooning over his… he still didn’t know what they were… anyway, now was not the time to be daydreaming over Morse’s first name. Callista had known it, so evidently he had gone by that as a child at least. Callista had been in the report too. Callista Montgomery. So she _did_ have a last name. There was no mention of her parents having been resident at Heartland so perhaps there was more to that story.

“Sir, what do we do now?”

Thursday considered the question before answering. “I think this development means we can be pretty certain that Kite was the victim of our dragon strike. Unfortunately that puts two people squarely in the frame as suspects.” 

Peter’s blood ran cold. “Sir, he would never-”

“We don’t know that.” Thursday cut him off. “He’s got a pretty damn good motive wouldn’t you say? And he concealed his involvement. Even if it wasn’t him, he’s kept this Callista’s likely motivation from us.”

The phone rang. Peter answered it, glad of a reason not to discuss the topic any more.

“DS Jakes, Oxford City Police.”

“Oh... hello.” The voice on the other end of the line was female, and uncertain. “I was hoping to speak with Constable Morse?”

“I… I’m afraid he’s out on enquiries right now.” He lied, hoping she hadn’t noticed his hesitation. “Can I help? I’m his colleague.”

“He… he was here just now. Oh! Of course he wouldn’t be back yet. How silly of me!” Morse was still making enquiries? What was he doing? Peter shot Thursday a sideways glance, he was watching the call intently.

“Perhaps I could take a message?” He suggested.

“Oh.. oh yes… I suppose that would be OK. Can you tell him, when that woman said about meeting at ‘the river by our school’, I think she also said something about boats. I thought it might be important. If Mr Saunders is in trouble I want to make sure I gave all the information I could.”

“Mr Saunders?”

“My manager? You _are_ on this case aren’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course. Morse just went out early so I’m not up to speed with all the developments,” he lied. “Can I take your name and number for him?”

“Its Anna Bird. I’m calling from Saunders and Sons, the jewellers.” 

He tried to think of what else to ask, how else to get information from this woman without making her suspicious, but before he had a change she had thanked him and abruptly hung up.

There was no escaping telling Thursday what the call had been about. He wasn’t a quick enough liar to cover up for Morse, and he had a feeling this could be serious. 

“Sir, I’m not sure what to make of this, but a woman just called in from Saunders and Sons, the jewellers, on the High Street I think. Seems Morse was just in there making enquiries after her boss. She said she told him something about a woman and a meeting by the river, by ‘our school’, with boats involved somehow? She also seemed to be under the impression her boss was in trouble.”

“The other man convicted of Heartland was a Sanders. What’s the betting he’s the same man? Bit too much of coincidence with a name that similar, especially if Morse went there.”

“What now then?” He wanted to get to Morse. What was he doing following after the other killer? He couldn’t believe even a little bit that Morse was guilty, but he was afraid for what he might do now, or what might happen to him. He was still haunted by the thought that Morse looked like he was condemned.

“We need to find this Saunders, and hopefully Morse too, and put this case to rest. But where the hell was he going?”

Peter stared at the paperwork on his desk and muttered, “the river, by our school, with boats.” He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“What would ‘our’ school mean?”

“Is there a school for dragons?”

“Sanders isn’t a dragon. Assuming Saunders is indeed Sanders.”

“No, but the killer is, and maybe that’s this ‘she’ that was asking this fella to meet there.”

“There aren’t any schools for dragons in Oxford – no, wait, no schools for dragons, but there is the Dragon school. Some posh feeder school for the colleges.” Thursday strode over to a map of the city “Look, here, over by the Cherwell. Right round the corner from the Cherwell Boathouse!”

Peter was putting on his coat before Thursday had even finished speaking. “I’ll go get us a car.” He rushed from the room and down the stairs. Something was telling him that he needed to get to Morse, and soon. He tried to push back the feelings of helplessness and guilt. They were on their way now. They would get to the boathouse and, no matter what was happening, he would be there for Morse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There being a school with that name in Oxford was a gift to me really. I couldn't not use it. Anyway, big stuff next! I'm excited to finally be getting to this next part.


	15. The Fuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! Sorry this took a few days. It has been a hectic week. I thought I'd have more time earlier in the week and never meant to leave you all hanging so long. Anyways, here we go...

They made their way to the river by the school via the University Parks. There was a footpath on the other side but the information they had gathered from Miss Bird at the jewellers implied they should probably be on the school side, so they didn’t cross over at High Bridge. The day was dry but cold, so it was lucky for them that no one was using the playing fields behind the school. Still, they kept to the riverbank, it wouldn’t be good if they were seen on private property.

There was no one in sight anywhere along the banks on either side. Morse stopped in his tracks. What if they were too late? It felt like his life was unravelling before him. Callista was twitchy. He could tell she was frantic with worry but trying to keep herself calm. Her breath was pure smoke and steam in the November chill and traces of scales touched her hairline. He wondered how he looked now. He felt half-way to his own grave.

“Can you sense her at all?” He asked.

“No. You?”

“Nothing.”

“What now?” She hissed at him, her eyes darting around.

“Perhaps she only meant by, as in near? Maybe somewhere you can get to the river without trespassing?” He replied. His mind turned that thought over, picturing maps of Oxford in his mind. “We walked through the Park, so not there, so what’s beyond – Oh! Of course!” He wondered how he could have forgotten. “Come on!” He began jogging along the bank to the other side of the grounds. The throbbing pain in his bruised limbs was the only thing keeping him from actually running.

Callista ran to catch up to him. “What? Where are we going now? I thought this was it?”

“The Cherwell Boathouse! It’s just the other side of the school.”

“Boathouse?”

“Penny always loved boats, remember?”

Callista didn’t reply. Instead she ran past him, gradually less human with every step.

~~~~~~

Peter had the feeling they were going to be too late. Everything seemed to take too long. Getting out of the station, getting the car, picking up the Inspector from the front door, the drive into town. Every second, every minute, was precious in their race to get there and… what? What were they rushing to? An incident in progress? Or a crime scene?

Peter’s breath caught in his throat and Thursday shot him a funny look.

“What’s up with you?”

“I’ve just got a bad feeling about this, Sir.” He swallowed back his fears and concentrated on driving as fast as he safely could.

“What sort of a bad feeling? Not like you to go superstitious on me.”

“I… I don’t know, Sir. It’s just...” He tried to get a grip on his thoughts, and what he could say out loud. “DC Morse...” It was no good, whatever he said would seem odd given their history.

“We’ll deal with that situation _after_ this one, Sergeant,” Thursday growled.

With a shock, Peter realised that Thursday thought he was afraid _of_ Morse, not _for him._ He risked a glance over. Thursday was glaring out the passenger window. He wanted to correct him. Tell him that, right now, nothing mattered to him but Morse. The case, this Sanders git, whoever the attacker was, _none of it mattered._ All he really cared about was seeing Morse to safety.

He couldn’t find the words.

As always, as in all the most important moments of his life, he was either tongue tied, or screaming things he didn’t mean. Mostly his refuge was in silence. It had served him well since he was a child. He had learned the hard way what happened when he opened his mouth, so mostly he stayed quiet. Just occasionally, when pushed too far, he would be shocked into speech, but it was like his brain didn’t know what words to provide when those times came around. So instead it would just throw something big, showy, brash at him to use, something to ensure no one ever got close enough to realise just how scared he really was.

He saw the school ahead and slowed the car. They would need to ditch it on the road and walk down to the boathouse. It wouldn’t do to go roaring in and potentially upset what could be a delicate situation. He pulled over opposite the road to the river and was out of the car before the engine had fully stopped. He could hear Thursday behind him as he ran.

_Please let him be safe..._

~~~~~~

Morse caught up to Callista just as she cleared the fence between the grounds and the lane by the boathouse. He could hear voices ahead, loud but indistinct, one female, one male. Maybe they were in time. He was going to need a plan, and soon.

Carefully, he jumped the fence that Callista has all but flown over. She was more dragon than human now, her pale wings broken free, her skin laced with scales, palms becoming paws, nails becoming claws.

He refused the change in himself as always. There was no point in shifting to his dragon form. He was just as useless in that form as this. At least when perceived as human people underestimated him.

He rounded the corner to the wide expanse of concrete that sloped down to a river crowded with boats. On a cold, wintery, weekday in November there was no one there manning the place to hire out the punts and other craft to eager students and tourists. Or perhaps there had been, but when faced with the scene that met them, they had fled.

Now he knew he had been wrong in something. He did not recognise the man before him. He had been so certain that he would know their faces forever. Time had been kind to Sanders. He still looked very young, and strong, and not at all like a man in his fifties. Sanders had served eight years. It cut deep to see him so healthy, and whole, after what he had done. Some of his control slipped, and his eyes changed.

Sanders held a gun before him, aimed at a young woman with vibrant red hair. _Aurora._ He would certainly still have known her anywhere. Her vivid, scarlet, wings were outspread behind her and curls of flame escaped her sharp, bared, teeth.

Callista hung back, her whole attention focussed on Aurora.

“Rora! Please! Come away now, love. _I need you!”_ she called to the source of her Haven in a keening wail.

“He has to pay, Cal! He has to _PAY!”_

Sanders kept the gun focussed on Aurora; she was clearly the one he feared most from.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here! I knew it! You’re insane. Insane!” He shouted at the dragon. The hand with the gun trembled slightly. Morse had to wonder at the sanity of a man threatening a dragon who was actually flaming.

“Aurora,” he called out to the woman he had known so long ago, “its Morse. Do you remember me?” He inched closer to her. The heat that rolled off her in waves was intoxicating. It called to his own, long suppressed, rage and grief.

“Morse? _Endeavour?”_ She flicked her eyes to him briefly and he saw some recognition there.

“Yes, Endeavour.” It was a struggle to keep his voice calm. She was clearly on the verge of a strike, and Sanders looked like he could shoot at any second if pushed further.

A vicious smile pulled at Aurora’s mouth and he knew he had only made things worse “You see!” She screamed at the man opposite her. “Another of the poor souls you destroyed with your evil has come to judge you.”

“SHUT UP! I did nothing I wouldn’t do again you vile creature!” The tremor in Sanders’ hand was growing.

“Not even going to beg? Kite did. Kite _begged_ for his life. Just as Penny begged you!”

“Who’s Penny?” Sanders sneered. It was his biggest mistake. Potentially fatal even. How could he not remember the name of the teenage girl he had helped to kill?

Aurora screeched with pure rage and lunged at Sanders. He moved to prevent her, but Callista was quicker. She dived and dragged Aurora to the side, near the river.

Sanders fired, and missed.

Then things got even more chaotic.

~~~~~~

Peter heard the scream and the shot and increased his pace. He rounded the corner to the river front and was met with a scene he would never forget. Two dragons, one pale, the other a deep red, grappled down near the river. One of them, the one fighting to keep the red one back, he was sure was Callista, but it was hard to tell with the wings and all the rest. On the other side of the concrete slope was a middle-aged man with a gun, Sanders he presumed, and near to the two dragons was Morse, his hands outstretched and empty, facing off against the armed man.

Thursday arrived behind him and took in the picture before him. He opened his mouth to speak but didn’t get very far. Sanders saw them and immediately swung around to face them. He kept the gun aimed at the dragons. “MORE of them?!” He glanced back to the fighting dragons. He had evidently mistaken them for reinforcements, for being dragons too.

The next events seemed to go in slow motion.

Sanders swung the gun round to aim it at them.

The red dragon broke free from the pale one.

Thursday reached for his own gun.

A shot rang out and ball of fire flew.

From nowhere another dragon flew forward, faster than he had ever dreamed possible.

He was all red-gold wings, and scales reaching from bright gold eyes, and woven into beautifully familiar hair.

His Morse.

His heart beat just once before it all went horribly wrong.

The shot had been aimed at him he realised as Morse’s dragon form twisted in the air before him - and blocked the blow. Even as his body buckled from the shot, he threw his own fire and diverted that which the red dragon had thrown, blowing up one of the doors of the boathouse in a sea of opalescent flames.

Morse’s feet touched the ground and he screamed at the red dragon in a language he had never heard before. His wings curled away, fading back into his body. Where had they even come from? Why was his coat intact? Where was the blood that was spreading down his back coming from?

It felt like everything narrowed then. He had to get to Morse. His Morse. His Endeavour. He had to save him. 

He didn’t have time to act before things got worse.

“Drop the weapon!” Thursday roared. Sanders swung his gun around to face the Inspector.

Another shot. This time Thursday had fired.

Sanders crumpled to the ground, grasping his leg which was bleeding heavily.

Thursday made a move to try and get to Sanders to make sure he was disarmed but was stopped by the red dragon rushing forward. Morse, heedless of his own injury, dived forwards to intercept her. Together, he and Callista dragged her back and away.

~~~~~~

Morse felt like he was being torn in two. He _needed_ to protect Peter and Thursday. He also needed to stop Aurora.

It hadn’t been a conscious choice. In that split second when he had realised that Sanders was going to shoot Peter, maybe even kill him, he acted in pure instinct. He shifted for the first time since he was a child and flew to prevent it. Stopping Aurora killing Sanders had then been secondary. He had a clear shot to stop her, so he took it.

He had felt the bullet, of course he had, but it felt like it was happening to someone else. He knew then that Peter was his Haven. He knew so deep in his heart. Only that deepest of feelings of love and home could dull the feel of a bullet wound down to something to be ignored until a more convenient time.

_“Aurora – stop! Don’t do this!”_ He screamed in at the woman he didn’t really know at all, yet who looked so like the innocent little girl he had once known so very well. She ignored him. She was blind and deaf to everything but Sanders. She was lost to them. She had been lost from the day her sister, Penny, had been killed in front of her.

He was only distantly aware of Thursday’s shout, and the third gunshot, but when Sanders collapsed and he saw Aurora dive in he knew he had to act. He couldn’t let this happen.

It took all his strength to stop her. Then it grew easier, and he became aware of Callista helping him. They managed to drag her away.

Thursday reached Sanders and kicked his gun away from him before he could reach it. 

“Jakes! Some assistance?” Thursday called to Peter.

Peter didn’t move, he was watching Morse, his face tight with fear. 

Unintentionally Morse took a step away from Callista and Aurora, and towards the man whose presence called to his very soul. He had hurt Peter again. He couldn’t look at him.

He looked away and met Callista’s gaze instead. Suddenly, in one awful moment of clarity, he knew what she was about to do. She dragged the now listless Aurora away from him.

“Cal, NO!” he screamed.

“She can’t go back.” She whispered back. So quiet. So lost. So right.

The flames engulfed the scarlet dragon between them. She screamed, just once, then the fires consumed her until she was nothing but ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooooo... yep. Sorry again. I promise to do my best to have the next chapter up ASAP.


	16. Taking Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're approaching the end. I'm not sure if I might end up extending this though as there is going to need to be a decent amount more fluff for me to recover from what these boys are doing to me.

Peter watched in stunned silence as the flames destroyed the red dragon, the ashes accumulating on the ground. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight. He knew now what had terrified all the people who had seen such sights in the war. Yet it wasn’t them that had turned on the communities after; it was the ignorant young men at home who hadn’t fought, hadn’t seen. He could see now how it could only have been someone truly ignorant that would decide to turn on a dragon for their ability to kill in such a way.

He’d heard stories of strikes, seen them in films, but this was a whole other story. In the films the dragon would throw a massive ball of flames and the victim would scream in agony and then burn up slowly. This had almost been… merciful. He could never have imagined flames to be as beautiful as the waves of opalescent light that had enveloped the woman. Her scream had been one of rage and frustration, not pain.

The true terror of a dragon strike, he could now see, was in the ease with which they could erase someone from the world. It was all about the ashes, not the flames.

Callista folded in on herself, doubling over, collapsing to her knees, and then falling to the ground. He had never seen such a look of utter despair and desolation on someone, and he hoped he never would again. She shifted gradually back to human before him; her eyes were blue.

The shock of those suddenly blue eyes brought him back to the moment. 

Thursday was trying to cuff an incoherently screaming Sanders. Callista lay curled into a ball on the cold concrete slab. Morse stared down at the ashes before him, his now fully human skin almost as grey as the remains of the red dragon.

He made a move to get to him. He needed to get to his Morse. He needed to find those so elusive words that would fix all of this.

A wave of reinforcements cut him off.

Backup had arrived.

Officers and paramedics hastily assisted Thursday in removing Sanders from the scene. _When had Thursday called for all these people?_ Others, once directed by the Inspector, went over to Callista and tried to arrest her. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even blink. It was like looking at a living corpse. In the end two more paramedics removed her, gently lifting her onto stretcher. 

Amidst the tide both Peter and Morse remained fixed, frozen into place, rocks in the swell.

He broke free. It was only a matter of a small number of steps to close the distance between them. He wanted to hold him. To draw Morse into his arms, and never let him go again. 

It was the blood that brought him up short.

_Morse had been shot!_

How could he have forgotten? How could he forget his Morse _taking a bullet for him?!_

“Morse...” He reached out hesitantly. Morse looked back at him. He seemed miles away. He looked lost. _He would not lose him!_ “Morse, I think you might need… You’re… You’re bleeding.” Maybe it was only a scratch. Maybe it wasn’t so bad as the blood coating his back made it look. Morse turned slightly and now Peter could see there was blood on his front too, emanating from around his left shoulder. Morse followed Peter’s line of sight. His still golden eyes grew wide. He swayed momentarily, then dropped like a stone.

For the second time in as many days, Peter dived forward and broke Morse’s fall. He didn’t catch him elegantly, but at least he didn’t hit the concrete.

He heard footsteps rushing towards him as he carefully lowered Morse to the ground. He couldn’t tear his focus away from Morse’s inanimate form. _was he even breathing?_ He reached out and felt the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. 

“Morse?” Thursday’s voice was full of panic. Evidently he did still care. “Jakes, what’s going on?”

“He...” Peter swallowed and tried to find his voice again. “He took a bullet for me...”

Thursday took in the blood staining Morse’s coat and swore. 

Another familiar voice cut through the general noise of the rest of the scene. “Let me though please!” Doctor Debryn demanded of the officers setting up a cordon around the entrance. They knew the doctor well enough not to object and let him through. He hurried down the ramp to join Peter and Thursday by the river. “What trouble has he gotten himself into this time?” He asked, even as he was already peeling back Morse’s coat and jacket.

Peter’s entire focus was still firmly fixed on Morse. He wanted to answer but still the words wouldn’t come. _He took a bullet for me. He flew. He is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and he’s dying out here in the cold and the concrete. I can’t lose him. Don’t let him die._

“The idiot jumped in front of a bullet.” Thursday replied. Debryn surreptitiously shot Peter a concerned look. “Doc, you should know, he’s-”

Debryn cut the Inspector off. “I am fully aware of what Morse is, thank you.” 

“What?”

Debryn peeled back Morse’s shirt to reveal a bullet wound through his shoulder. It could only have missed his heart by an inch or two at the most. Peter’s own heart stuttered with fear. 

“Here be dragons...” Debryn muttered as his only response to Thursday. “Sergeant, if you would be so kind, could you roll him slightly? I need to check for an exit wound.” 

Peter nodded, mutely, and then gently lifted Morse. He supported his head, the softness of his hair against his hand brought back other memories. How did they get from kissing in a club to this? Debryn cut away the clothing around the wound quickly and efficiently. For a pathologist, he was still adept at emergency care. 

“Will he be alright?” Thursday asked. Peter didn’t look up at him, but he could hear the emotion in his voice. He had been too quick to judge. It was evident now that Thursday still cared about Morse, regardless of what he was. And who was he to judge a bad instinctive reaction to finding out? His had been far worse after all. 

“The entry and exit wounds are clear, and the bullet appears to have missed anything vital. He’s been very lucky. He’ll need to be checked for any bullet fragments and in case any bone has been damaged. What form was he in?”

“Dragon.”

“With full wings?” Thursday nodded. “Well that’s good news at least. The bone structure of the shoulders shifts when the wings are released. Much less chance of hitting a bone. The shift back was a bad idea though. Pretty dangerous with a wound like this.” Debryn nodded to Peter and he gently lowered Morse back down. Morse stirred in Peter’s arms, his eyes opened and he took in the crowd around him before closing them again. “Alright gentlemen, if I could have some space please until the next ambulance arrives?” Thursday looked like he might object, but gave in under Debryn’s withering glare. 

Peter held Morse tighter. He didn’t want to let him go. “Sergeant Jakes?” Debryn raised an eyebrow at him, but his expression was sympathetic. “I find myself in need of my bag. Could you fetch it for me please?” It was the only thing that could possibly have motivated him to move. Morse needed urgent care, and Debryn was helping him. He let go and got up. Debryn handed him his car keys.

He looked back in regret as he walked away. The sooner he got the bag, the sooner he would be back he told himself. Then he’d tell them. He’d tell them he was going nowhere. He’d tell Morse he was going nowhere. He’d tell him he loved him and stay by his side until he was safe, and for ever after that too if he’d have him.

~~~~~~

The sounds around him were confused at first, then they resolved themselves into familiar voices; Thursday and Max. Someone’s hand rested against his head. _Peter._ He opened his eyes and saw them all gathered around him. What had happened? There was a burning pain in his shoulder. Oh yes. He’d been shot. The memories rushed back to him. He closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to see what they thought of him.

He remembered the strike. Aurora was gone. He remembered Callista buckling. If he saw her again, it would be a miracle. How could she possibly survive a fourth broken Haven? He had loved Peter enough to risk dying for him, but he couldn’t even imagine the kind of devotion that could lead you to kill the one you loved.

He had never expected to see any of them again. His childhood was a distant memory. But he had kept that memory safe. He had thought if he didn’t think of them then they would remain the happy children he had once known forever. Now that memory lay in tatters.

Peter left him. Part of him registered that Debryn had all but sent him away, but the rest of him insisted that he must be glad to go. Peter had seen what they could do now. He had seen his dragon form. He had seen a strike. He knew that he had left, against orders, to help Callista. There was no way he would want him after that. For the briefest of times he had held the first person he now knew could be his Haven, and then he had messed it all up.

Morse opened his eyes again. Thursday was on the far side of the yard, talking with a uniformed officer. Debryn knelt next to him. Apart from two officers at the cordon, there was no one else in sight. He struggled to sit up. 

“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Max admonished as he tried to keep him down. The pain in his shoulder was bad, but he couldn’t let that stop him. He had to get away.

“Max… I’ve got to go. I… I need to-”

“Morse, don’t be ridiculous. You’re lucky to be alive. Shifting after taking a hit like that? Are you trying to kill yourself?” 

“You know?” Did everyone know already? It really was too late. There would be no coming back from this.

“I’ve known for years. Now _lie back down.”_

Morse didn’t lie down. Instead he stared at Max incredulously. “Years?”

“You remember our fateful first autopsy?”

“I fainted.” The embarrassment was old, but still cut.

“Indeed.” Max’s voice was wry. “You may think you have a perfect hold over your form, but you’re wrong. I saw your eyes change right before you dropped. Classic dragon reaction to death.”

His mouth opened and closed a few times before he found the words. “How do you know so much about dragons?”

“I studied them.” Max replied simply, then he added quietly, “and I married one.” 

That had been the last thing he had been expecting Max to say. The shock of it was enough to still his attempts to get up momentarily. Thursday glanced over at them. For a second he thought he would come over, then one of the officers standing guard called to him and he headed over to them instead. He remembered Peter would be on his way back any moment. He had to go. Standing quickly, he looked back to Max, the apology he wanted to give unspoken but plain.

“Morse, no!” Max struggled to get back up from the ground. 

He shifted as fast as he could. His shoulder felt white hot with pain as he did. It really was a stupid thing to do. Muscles and bones changing around an open wound? Potentially deadly. Still, on the other side of the change he was still alive, if in agony. He shrugged off Max’s restraining hand and threw himself into flight, gliding across the river, and over the trees on the far bank. He wouldn’t be able to fly for long, the pain he felt was enough to bring tears to his eyes, but it would get him far enough away that he could avoid all the consequences that awaited him back in Oxford. 

With every beat of his wings he felt his heart breaking. There was so much he would miss in leaving Oxford, but Peter… Peter was so much more to him. Leaving Peter meant leaving his Haven, his heart, his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no hugs. I'm fading away for lack of them. Why do they do this to me? Send help.


	17. Out in the Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long. The bulk was written on Saturday, then I got hit by another migraine which only really left me yesterday. Then it was Christmas. Then the chapter doubled in length. 
> 
> Anyway, the good news is I have the next chapter already done and in editing, and am just starting on what should be the last, but it might split in two if I need to get more fluff in. The bad news? I thought I was getting to the fluff this time round, but instead Morse is still being a disaster.

It had been a stupid thing to do. He could see that clearly now. Where would he go? Where _could_ he go? He needed treatment for his shoulder, and soon. On top of that every part of him was screaming to get back to Peter. 

The fields below him were vast and barren. The crops had all been harvested. He needed to land soon, but the thought of walking across the thick waterlogged earth kept him moving. He tried to keep high enough that the clouds would hide his passing, but it was so cold that high that he had to loop back down lower from time to time.

After what felt like an age, but had most likely only been an hour or so, he landed in a small village. It wasn’t a good choice, villages were notoriously insular, but he couldn’t go any further. Looking around, there was no one in sight.

He shifted back to human form – and regretted it instantly. The pain that tore through him was far worse that that of when he had shifted to dragon. His shoulder was a solid knot of burning iron. The world spun, the fading autumn of the trees whirling and colliding in a confused kaleidoscope of colours, then it all faded, until there was nothing but the cold hard earth that pressed against his burning body.

~~~~~~

Peter returned from the Doctor’s car, bag in hand, in time to see Morse clear the treeline on the far side of the river. _What was he doing?_ He opened his mouth to call after him, but then closed it again. There was no way Morse could hear him from there, and besides, how much clearer of an indication did he need?

His head was a confused mess. How could Morse go from taking a bullet for him, to flying away from a crime scene, wounded, without so much as a word to him? Mixed messages didn’t even begin to cover this situation. Maybe he had only meant to intervene, not get in the way of a gun. Maybe the depth of connection they shared was only in his head.

Debryn looked back to him and his stomach sank. He recognised the pity he wore all too well. He knew. What if he said something. He had been going to risk everything for Morse, but he had run away and left him to face it all alone. 

“What the hell??” Thursday joined him. He was staring at the treeline of the far bank where he had last seen Morse. “Does he have a death wish?”

“It would seem so Inspector.” Debryn sighed, looking between the pile of ashes he had originally been called for, and the horizon. “I doubt he could get far...” He looked meaningfully at Peter.

“Sir, perhaps I should get over to the other bank, look out for him?” He offered. Thursday looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. He wondered how well his mask was holding up. Right now he didn’t exactly care. 

“We’ll both head round. Nothing more we can be doing here just now.”

~~~~~~

The fields were achingly empty. Peter searched with the Inspector all along the footpath on the opposite bank of the river and across the harvested fields. There was no sign of Morse. Every now and then he would catch the Inspector scanning the horizon, as if he would be coming back any moment.

After an hour of searching in the cold and the mud until his feet were like blocks of ice, Debryn joined them. His frown as he caught up to them spoke volumes. The Doctor hadn’t thought Morse could get this far. They spread out and continued to hunt until the light started to wane. Thursday lifted his arm to call a halt and they all trudged back across the fields to the boathouse. 

They didn’t say what they were all thinking. _He shouldn’t have been able to get so far. How had he got further with a wound like that? Where was he? Was he safe? Was he even alive?_

The questions attacked Peter incessantly, along with his ever present guilt. _I shouldn’t have left him. I should have said something, anything, I should have told him I loved him._

__

~~~~~~

The next few days were like some kind of a bad dream. Peter wanted to be out looking for Morse, but he could only devote those hours not at the station to his search. Thursday stalked the corridors in a black mood, shutting down anyone who was foolish enough to talk badly of their missing DC, or dragons in general.

The papers carried the story, but the Inspector had made sure that they had all the facts. Ms Frazil ran the story in the Mail with a strong emphasis on all the good the police had done, downplaying the role of dragons, and making sure to put Sanders’ crimes in the spotlight. It had some little effect. There wasn’t as much of a kickback as they had feared. With one of the casualties being the perpetrator, and with her having been taken out by a dragon, there wasn’t so much people could say. 

Callista was in a high intensity specialist care unit, but she remained catatonic. Peter went to visit her a couple of times in the hopes of finding out anything she might know about Morse’s whereabouts. Each time he went they had surrounded her with more books, and a nurse with copper coloured eyes sat with her protectively. The specialist doctor confided in him when he went back a third time that they didn’t expect her to last the week. For Haven to be broken in such a violent way was immensely dangerous and Callista had shown no signs of progress since admission. That time, he looked through the window to the small room but did not go in. 

During working hours he got very little done. His mind was constantly elsewhere. All of his thoughts and fears were tied up in one very complex bundle known as Morse. If he only knew where he was. For some reason he had convinced himself he wasn’t dead, that he would know if he had truly lost him. It didn’t stop him worrying about that possibility constantly.

Each evening and morning, he would get a bus to Morse’s part of town, or check out a car and drive it over to the area he was last seen in. Morse hadn’t returned to his flat since that day, and despite driving further and further each time he found no trace of him, no sightings, nothing.

His nightmares returned. The old familiar ones were still there, but now they were mixed up with images of Morse getting beaten, shot, burned, drowned… and worse. He devoted the hours he lost to the fear of sleep to the case. His flat gradually filled with maps and notes. Morse wasn’t officially being looked for. He was listed as missing, but that was it. Thursday had refused anything else. He had quietly confided in the car when Peter picked him up one morning that he was worried that if they did anything more then Morse might not be able to come back to work when he turned up. Thursday didn’t seem to notice his Sergeant’s state. He didn’t know if he should be glad about that or not. 

Doctor Debryn found a constant stream of reasons to come to the station, or to call Peter over to the mortuary. He hated those hopeless tiled rooms. He hated even more than that the way that Debryn seemed determined to try and get him to talk. He never said about what exactly he wanted to talk, just hinted. What good would it do him to talk to a pathologist? Morse was not dead. He refused to entertain conversations about that being a possibility. 

He continued his searching. It wasn’t a secret exactly, but he didn’t tell anyone either. 

After a week, Morse’s landlord grew tired of Peter’s daily visits and, having accurately deduced that Morse was missing, gave Peter a key and told him to either pay the rent due two days previous, or clear everything out within the next three days so he could get a new tenant. Peter couldn’t afford the second rent, and he was too scared to talk to the Inspector about the situation, so he simply spent that evening boxing up Morse’s meagre belongings and moving them into his flat. 

It was strangely intimate to be surrounded by Morse’s things. It felt like they had moved in together by accident. The sight of the boxes unnerved him though. It reminded him of when someone had died and their belongings were gathered up before being claimed or given away. After another couple of days of staring at them, he began unpacking a few items and fitting them in around his own. When he next woke from a nightmare, one in which Morse was drowning in the Cherwell and he couldn’t reach him, he unpacked some more. Seeing Morse’s records, carefully sorted and stacked on his shelves, his record player on the side, his many books mixed in with his own minimal few, gave him a strange kind of hope. When he closed his eyes, there was only fear, but when he lay on his sofa, looking at their lives intertwined in his flat, a strange yet familiar record quietly playing, he could almost imagine they had found one another once more, and that all was well.

~~~~~~

The room he awoke in was bare and quiet. He was lying on an unmade bed. Rafters hung heavily with cobwebs loomed over his head. A round window in the end wall let in a weak stream of early morning light. The last thing he remembered was passing out in the road. Where was he now?

He felt as bad as he ever had in his life. Yes, his body was in a bad way, the bruising was still very much present, and his shoulder asserted that it had not yet been properly treated when he tried to move, but it was in his mind that he knew things were particularly bad. He felt disconnected, like his soul had broken off from his body sometime, and the tattered remains were now just biding time until they rotted away.

Footsteps on stairs echoed in the room and an old face appeared in the middle of the space. He recognised the old woman as a fellow dragon immediately. She met his gaze with a sharp look.

“So you’re awake then, eh?” He nodded in reply. “Took your time about it. Where can I be getting you to then?” 

He frowned. The words tumbled about in his brain. They were perfectly simple but he couldn’t make sense of them somehow.

“I’m sorry-” he began, before being cut off by a bout of coughing. The contraction of muscles pulled on his already damaged body and sent waves of pain through him. His eyes were bright with stars. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to pass out again. If he was dying he wanted to do it peacefully, but he had fought this long to live, defied all the odds and statistics, so some part of him still clung on to life and consciousness. That part of him thought then of Peter. 

_I shouldn’t have left him. I should have given him a chance._ That same part whispered to him as he fought to steady his ruined body.

The old woman didn’t make any moves to comfort him, she just watched impassively from the top of the stairs. 

“You’ve been out of it almost a day. Wasn’t sure what to do with you really. You can rest up here if you need, but I think you’d be better home, wherever that is. I’m no nursemaid so you’ll just have to see to yourself if you want to stick around. There’s bits downstairs for dealing with that,” she nodded her head in the direction of his shoulder, “and you can help yourself to food.” 

With that she turned and left. Morse let the pain and tiredness pull him under again.

~~~~~~

When he next awoke it was later in the day. Was it the same day? He managed to drag himself from the bed and down the rickety stairs. He was in a farmhouse of some description. It didn’t look like it had been cleaned or tidied in a very long time. Not that there was a lot to tidy. The place was hauntingly empty for a dragon’s home. The old lady dragon was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t been well enough to sense it when he awoke first, but he suspected she didn’t have Haven either.

On the kitchen table he found a tin of bandages and other first aid items. He took them off to the bathroom he could see a door opened into off the side of the house. The light didn’t work, and the bath and sink were thick with dust. He cleaned and bound the bullet wound in his shoulder as best he could, and removed the bandages Debryn had placed on his wrist and ankle. He tried not to contemplate what Max would think of his pitiful attempts at self treatment.

There wasn’t much food in the house, and he wasn’t particularly in the mood to eat, but his stomach protested that the last time he’d eaten must have been over a day ago, so he made sandwiches and ate them mechanically along with several glasses of water. He wanted tea, but his shoulder hurt far too much to contemplate such an exercise. 

He was so tired once he was done that he changed his mind about leaving and pressing on to… wherever he was going, and instead picked up an apple, some more water, and climbed the stairs back to the attic. 

Over the next, what he assumed were days, he drifted in and out of consciousness. He didn’t see the old lady again, but he knew she was about as she now left him sandwiches, fruit, cold porridge (perhaps it had been hot when she had brought it up), and water beside his bed. Sometimes he managed to eat, sometimes it was more than he could manage to even contemplate. 

Climbing down the stairs if he wanted to use the bathroom took every ounce of his energy, but he did it because he knew he needed to change the bandage on his shoulder regularly. His bruises were healing and fading gradually, but his shoulder was not improving. There was only cold water so he couldn’t clean it as effectively as he would have liked. What had been a sharp pain at the site of the injury became a burning mess of spikes that spread throughout his chest, neck, and arm. 

His heart ached for a whole other reason, but he refused to think about that. Still, his dreams were beyond his control, and they were full of Peter.

Fever set in at some point. His mind became a confused battleground between the part of him that just wanted to rest, and the part that wanted to live. The trouble was that the part that wanted to live was struggling amidst the fog of the fever to recall exactly what it was he wanted to live for.

~~~~~~

The old lady had brought a stool up to the attic with her and was perched beside his bed. He vaguely wondered when he had come around, and how long she had been there.

“Look, I’ve done this long enough to know when things are hopeless, and I’m telling you, for you they’re not.” She said, as if they’d been talking for some time.

He scraped around in his memory for what they had been talking about but came up blank. “I’m sorry, what?” His voice was a dried out husk.

“Oh, so you can speak. I was beginning to think you could only scream. You know I’d rather you didn’t do that. I’ve no neighbours to speak of, but if someone comes by...” Her manner was brusque but she didn’t seem angry.

“I was… screaming?” He couldn’t remember it, but the way his throat felt charred, his voice brittle, told him she was probably telling the truth.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “What are you living for young man?” She asked him, slowly and loudly, as if she didn’t believe him capable of understanding.

“Peter.” He answered without thinking. He wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t another fever dream.

“Good! We make progress at last! And how can I contact this Peter?”

“Oxford City Police. Detective Sergeant.” He rasped. The words felt odd somehow. Divorced from the complex emotions and stories they were tied up with they felt out of place in this scene.

“You want me to call the police now?!” Thick, wiry, eyebrows reached up into thin white hair.

“He’s police. I’m police.” He frowned and reached his good arm up to rub at his eyes. “I think... Peter Jakes.” He was trying to hold onto the thread of the conversation but it kept slipping from his grasp. 

_What were they talking about?_

“ _You’re_ police?!” The old woman stared at him incredulously, then tipped her head back to stare into the rafters, muttering under her breath. She looked back down at him. “And he’s your Haven, this Peter Jakes, Detective Sergeant?”

Was he? Was Peter his Haven? He was struggling to remember what had happened between them. Had he even told him…? No, they had… kissed? Everything was so confusing. He remembered he was supposed to be answering and tilted his head back to the old woman. “Could be. Maybe… One day.” More coughing shook his body. He felt fragile. His train of thought slipped away from him along with his consciousness, washed away by pain, and images he didn’t want to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up asap! Please don't kill me. I promise it will get better for the disaster pair...


	18. Lost Hearts and Missing Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here you go! The second half of the chapter born of a migraine.

Peter was staring hopelessly at the blank page in his typewriter when the call came in. The desk officer relayed a message left for him by a woman that hadn’t wanted to leave her name. She gave only an address of a church, and asked him to come as soon as he could. He asked the officer to repeat the message and who she had asked for but he had no more information. She had asked for him by name and rank, then given the message asking him to come to the address, and hung up before he could put her through. 

He stared down at the address in front of him then took it over to the map on the wall. It was a village church some miles from Oxford. What was this? 

Some instinct told him this was important, urgent even, but he couldn’t say why. _What if its about Morse?_ His mind nagged at him. He tried to crush that hope. There was no point getting overly excited over nothing. They had said the caller was female, old sounding, and there was no mention of anyone else. 

The day was almost over. If he went now and checked out a car no one would notice if he wasn’t at his desk come clocking off time.

~~~~~~

The drive took longer than he had hoped. Twice he had to stop and check the map and correct because he had gone wrong. The tiny country lanes were unhelpfully lacking in signposts, and those that were in place seemed to generally be pointing in the wrong direction.

Eventually he found the little church, two of the windows were bright against the dark of the winter evening. He pulled up by the gate and got out of the car. There was no one around that he could see, but the door to the church stood slightly ajar. He pulled his coat tighter around him against the cold evening air, then made his way up the path. Belatedly he realised he perhaps ought to have brought a weapon of some kind. What if this was not about Morse? What if this was dangerous? He hesitated in the porch, his heart racing, before pressing forwards through the door.

An old woman was sat in one of the pews near the door. The only light inside were two sets of candles set near to her. Was this who had called him here? He glanced around, but there was no sign of Morse. He didn’t know he had been hoping, _expecting_ , him until he feel the keen ache of disappointment.

“Are you Peter?” The voice of the old woman cut through the still in the Church.

“Yes, DS Peter Jakes, was it you that called?”

She nodded slowly, squinting into the gloom, considering him. “You know a young man, tall, skinny, dragon?” She asked him. 

His heart stuttered in his chest. “Morse? You know where Morse is?” The words were out before he could even consider them.

“Don’t know his name.” She shook her head. “You care for him, this Morse?”

He couldn’t say why but he got the feeling that his answer to her question could be one of the most vital he had ever given. “Yes, I...” The usual feeling of terror that came with admitting to a strong emotion tried to render him mute. He swallowed and fought through it. “I do care for him. Very much so. He’s… he’s my friend… and…”

The old woman held up her hand and stopped him. “I don’t need to hear your heartfelt speeches. But he does. Save it. Tell him.” She got up and moved to the door much more briskly than he would have thought possible given her age. She stopped and looked back at him. “Well, you coming then?” 

He hastened to follow her.

~~~~~~

Driving down a farm track with an irritable old woman was not how he had expected this evening to go. Peter had tried to draw her out on where Morse was, how he was doing, but she simply ignored him, only speaking to bark out directions. They didn’t have to travel far, but he was going to be hard pressed to explain the volume of mud now coating the vehicle when he returned it. Regular duties in Oxford city did not usually involve dirt tracks more often frequented by tractors.

They pulled up in front of a farm house. It was dark, the unlit windows like gaping holes in the pale stone walls. A shiver ran down Peter’s spine. From the moment she had described Morse he had implicitly trusted this woman, now he questioned that choice. She hadn’t named Morse, had avoided all questions, and had lured him out into the back of beyond with no one the wiser that he was even here. He had made better life choices. For Morse’s sake, he got out of the car and followed the woman into the farm house. 

Silently she made her way up the stairs to the first floor. There she stopped by another staircase, much smaller and battered, and turned back to him.

“I found him out on the road in the village. He was lucky I had the tractor or I’d have had to leave him. Needs to get home. Thought he’d take himself off. He was doing alright for a bit but he’s taken a turn for the worse.” Peter felt sick, what did she mean by ‘a turn for the worse’? He wanted to barge past her, find Morse, but he held back out of respect. The old woman narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe I shoulda called it in, but given the circumstances…” She shook her head. He could understand. “Well, I only knew he was police this afternoon. I went to the village and used the phone to call then. I’m glad you came. I told him it wasn’t hopeless, and I woulda hated to be wrong.” 

She turned and made her way up the next flight of stairs into the attic. Peter followed in her footsteps, trying not to rush, quelling the urge to push past and rush to his Morse. The sight that met him in the wide attic took his breath away. Morse lay on an old bed, still in the clothes he had been in that day. A bandage was wrapped haphazardly about his shoulder. He was pale and, if it was possible, thinner than he had ever seen him. If it hadn’t been for the laboured rise and fall of his chest, he was otherwise so still that Peter might have feared him dead.

His shoes felt like they were full of concrete. What if he was too late?

“Take him home. He needs Hoarde, Haven, and a decent doctor. Then he’ll heal.” The old woman turned and left them alone.

The sound of her boots descending the steps shattered his trance. Peter crossed the space and was perched next to Morse on the narrow bed in seconds. He gently shook Morse by his good shoulder. His other hand reached out to caress the face he had etched into his memory. 

“Morse! _Morse!”_ He stirred a little but didn’t open his eyes. “Wake up, please love!” Morse mumbled something but still didn’t properly wake up. The sense of panic that was overwhelming him made it hard to think straight. A chorus of _’too late, too late, you failed him, its too late,’_ drowned out all sensible thought. “Please… Please… Endeavour, I need you to wake up for me. I need to know I’m not too late. I looked for you… I looked… I didn’t stop. Please… I need to tell you...” The words died in his throat. 

Why had the old woman called him now? She’d said he would heal if he could take him home and give him Hoarde, Haven, and a doctor. How was Morse supposed to make it that far. He needed a hospital, not him. He might love Morse, but Morse hadn’t chosen him. He had left. He had flown away, fled, so how could he give Morse the Haven he needed? 

No, he loved him so he would do everything he could. He would get him out of here, to a hospital, and he would tell him he loved him. Even if Morse hadn’t chosen him, he wanted him to know he was loved. The trouble right now was that seeing him like this was breaking his heart. He wanted to take him in his arms and hold him until they were both safe once more… It wasn’t that simple.

He leaned forwards and pressed his forehead to Morse’s. His skin was dangerously hot. Fever. They couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t call for help, no phone, and there was nothing on this earth that would have persuaded him to risk leaving Morse alone here while he went to get someone. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He was going to have to carry him.

“Peter?” The voice was barely more than a whisper. He didn’t dare to hope. Peter opened his eyes, to be met with Morse’s own blue ones, so close. Their foreheads pressed together, noses almost touching. “Peter, are you…” Morse went to reach for him with his left arm, and immediately hissed in pain. His eyes closed again as he began coughing. 

“Morse?” Peter pulled back and gently placed his cold hands to support Morse’s frame. “Morse! Christ… I…” The coughing stopped and Morse’s eyes remained closed. “Morse? Endeavour?” At the use of his first name he opened his eyes once more and frowned at Peter.

“Since when do you call me that?”

“I… I don’t… Its just… It is a nice name. Christ! Why are we talking about that? You scared me! I thought I’d lost you. Please… please don’t do that again.” He looked away, focussing on the mess of bandages rather than Morse’s face. “I know… I know I’m not… what you want, but please… I care about you. I need you to be safe. I need to get you to a hospital.”

“What do you mean?” Morse’s voice was rough. Probably from all the coughing he guessed.

“You need treatment. Surely you can see you need-” He began. Morse cut him off.

“Not about the hospital. I mean...” Morse coughed again, but this time he fought to regain control of his breathing. “What do you mean you’re not what I want?” 

He looked back up in shock. Morse was still frowning at him. “I mean that I know… that I’m not… you know. Look, I care for you. Its as simple as that for me. But I know that’s not the way for you so...”

“You care for me?”

“I _love_ you.” The words were out before he could think about them. He had promised himself he would tell Morse how he felt, but this was not the time nor the place.

A small half smile pulled at Morse’s face. He tried to sit up, but ended up falling back, his face now twisting in pain. Without thinking Peter took hold of his right hand and reached up to smooth Morse’s tangled hair.

“Please love, please stay still. I need to work out how to get you out of here.” He looked back to the stairs and considered calling to the old woman to see if she would help him. Morse laughed, then coughed some more. Peter spun back round. “Why the hell are you laughing?”

“Because you’re just as much of an idiot as me.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you too, Peter... have done for ages… You’re… everything to me… and more...” he broke off as another bout of coughing took hold. Peter looked down at Morse in shock. His eyes seemed less focussed now. Was this the fever talking? Could he really mean it?

“You… you can’t… how…?”

Morse squeezed the hand Peter had a hold of. “I’m sorry… for before… I was an idiot. I was… scared to hurt… to… hurt you...” He trailed off and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he looked confused. He looked around. “Peter?” The fever was taking hold again. Peter’s heart was so consumed by love, hope, and fear, that he would have readily stayed in the moment where Morse had said he loved him forever, but they needed to get out of here, and to safety.

“Morse, I need to get you out of here. Do you think you could walk if I helped?” Morse shook his head. “OK, well, what about if I carry you? Your shoulder… will that hurt too much?”

“Probably. But I want to go. We could try.”

“OK.” Peter stood and got into place. “I’m going to lift you now. Tell me if you need me to stop.” Morse nodded. He slipped his arms under Morse’s body and in one swift move gathered him up into his arms. Morse made a pained noise, and then passed out. Why did it always seem to end up this way? Morse unconscious, and him carrying him. Gods but he loved this disaster prone man. He wasn’t sure if he would have been better putting him back down, but since he was already unconscious he took the only decision he could and got him out of there. He turned his head slightly to place a gentle kiss to Morse’s face on his shoulder, then carried him out of the room, down the stairs, and away from the farm house. 

Peter placed Morse’s limp body into the back seat of the car with as much care as he could. Once more he kissed his forehead, then he got in the front of the car and drove them away, down the bumpy lanes, back towards Oxford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! How happy my heart is now they're finally reunited! 
> 
> I'm not sure how coherent either of these 2 chapters are courtesy of my head having only just recovered. Hopefully they're not terrible. I am pretty sure the last chapter will get split in two to maximise. The fluff. We all need more of that after the trauma these two put us through. Let me know if you have requests. No idea if they'll do as they're told to include them but let me know anyway!


	19. Love is the Hearth You Come Home To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As predicted, it got split, so this is now the penultimate due to my need for MORE FLUFF! Also there were quite a lot of things the boys needed to discuss. Not to mention that pesky matter of a bullet wound...

With every beat of his heart Peter remembered those words. Fevered or not, Morse had told him he loved him. He clung to that just as fiercely as he did to the hope that he had got to him in time. He felt like he was stuck in a loop, checking the rear-view mirror every few seconds, twisting round to check Morse’s temperature at every junction. His driving was as steady and smooth as he could make it whilst also covering as much ground as quickly as possible.

As they entered the suburbs of Oxford, the car gliding through patches of street-light, Morse stirred in the back of the car. Peter hurried to pull over, fearful of how he could hurt himself if he didn’t realise where he was. He reached into the back of the car and took Morse’s hand. It was a simple gesture but it still filled his chest with a fluttering. Fear and hope, fear and hope, the push and pull rhythm of a heartbeat, always those two emotions when it came to the man he loved.

“Morse? Are you back with me?”

“Peter?” Morse looked around. “Where are we?” His voice was faint, weak, but it didn’t sound as rough as it had before.

“I’m taking you-” Peter stopped himself before he could say ‘home’. Morse didn’t have a home of his own now. He had packed that all up and fitted it into his own. He realised now that when he thought of home for Morse he thought of exactly that, their lives entwined along with their hearts. He wondered when he had become such a sap. He wondered how he would explain to Morse that his belongings were now dispersed across his flat. The dim light that made it into the car was a sudden blessing to him as it hid his flush of embarrassment. “We’re in Oxford. I’m taking you to the hospital.” He finished hurriedly to try and cover the slip.

Morse paled “No! No, Peter, please, I can’t…” He began to cough again. “Please don’t send me there!” His voice shook. Peter could see clearly the terror his words had caused.

“Morse, you need treatment.” He spoke gently, trying to calm Morse.

“You don’t… you don’t understand. Can’t I just stay with you? Just for a few days, until I’m well. I promise I’ll leave you in peace after.” Morse pleaded with him. 

Peter so desperately wanted to say yes. Not only because he longed to have Morse safely in his own home, (to care for him, to see him every day, to pretend that he wasn’t going to leave again as soon as he could,) but also because he had seen the specialist dragon units. They offered everything a dragon needed like they were ticking boxes, but he hadn’t really felt like the doctors cared, and the thought of Morse in such a sterile environment – he shuddered. Still, Morse _needed_ treatment.

He shook his head and gently squeezed Morse’s hand. “I can’t treat a bullet wound.”

“Max. Max can treat me. Peter… please?” Morse fought to turn so he could see Peter better. Peter watched as he bit his lip against the pain it caused.

“Morse, you can’t even sit up. Your shoulder is a mess. You’ve got a fever and can’t stop coughing. How is any of that supposed to get better in my flat with the help of a pathologist?”

Morse fixed him with an intent look. His eyes were bright with the fever, but determined. “Max knows about dragons. He can help and… and my shoulder will heal… but... a hospital can’t help with… with the rest.” Peter watched as Morse struggled to draw breath and fight back the coughing that talking triggered. He really was the single most stubborn man he knew.

“The rest?” He asked, the fluttering in his chest returning. _Fear and hope, fear and hope._

Morse seemed to blush. It was hard to tell with the fever. He looked away from Peter, staring up at the roof of the car. 

“Morse, if you don’t tell me what you need, how am I ever supposed to do it?” Morse frowned at the roof but still didn’t reply. “Endeavour!” Morse stubbornly refused to react. “Endeavour Morse, I meant what I said before; I love you. I would do anything for you. And I would have told you that two weeks ago if you hadn’t legged it!” Some of his frustration escaped into his words. He let go of Morse’s hand and ran his fingers through his hair. 

“You were all too keen to get away from me the first chance you got!” Morse bit back at him.

“I was going to get Debryn’s bag! You needed treatment. Which you still need, and would have got two weeks ago if you’d just waited!” It was comforting in a strange kind of way, slipping back into their old antagonism.

“Waited for what? For you to reject me again? Just like everyone else!” Morse voice cracked. He would have been shouting but his voice was too tired, too worn down by the fever for that.

And just like that that familiar comfort left Peter. He felt ice cold. How could Morse think he had rejected him?

“I was not rejecting you.” He said quietly. Morse closed his eyes. “I was _not_ rejecting you.” Still Morse refused to look at him. “Endeavour, I need you to know that the only thing that could have possibly made me leave you at that moment was a way to help you stay alive and with me. Getting the Doctor what he needed to do that was exactly that. _I love you._ Do you understand that? Nothing, _nothing_ , is going to change that. I love you as a human, as a dragon, as a detective, as a man, and as anything else you damn well are. If you’d given me the chance I would’ve told you right then and there.”

“And exposed what you are? Lost your job?” Morse asked him, the fight gone from him. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

“I don’t expect anything, but its the truth.” He turned back to the front of the car and leaned back in the seat. “What do I need to do to make you believe me?”

“Take me home...” He heard Morse fighting back the cough again. “Get Max to come help me. I’ll be fine. If you’d really do anything for me, then do that.”

Peter rubbed at his eyes. Suddenly he was overwhelmingly tired. He had thought of finding Morse every waking moment since he had seen him fly away. This was not among any of the scenarios he had dreamed up. 

“I… I can’t take you to your place.”

“Why? Because you think a hospital-” Morse began arguing again. Peter cut him off.

“NO! Because you didn’t pay your damn rent and I had to move all your stuff out you idiot!” He hadn’t meant to admit that. He gripped the steering wheel and rested his head against his hands. “Fuck.”

“Oh.”

“Oh exactly.” He muttered through gritted teeth.

“Where’s… where are… all my… my things then?”

Peter refused to uncurl from the ball he had formed against the wheel. “At mine.”

“Why?” 

“Because I had nowhere else to put them.” He lied. 

“Oh.” Why did he sound sad now? When was this bloody roller-coaster named Endeavour Morse going to give him any peace?

“Dammit!” He uncurled and turned back round “Fine. I don’t know why I put them there, OK? I was looking for you, and then the landlord told me to pay up or get your stuff out, so I did, get your things out that is, because I was worried he’d get rid of them, and I know how important your records are and all, so I took them to mine. Then I hated the boxes because it looked like you’d died and that was something I couldn’t bear. So I sort of unpacked. So you kind of moved in with me.” The words came out in a rush. Once again he cursed his tendency to either say nothing, or exactly the worst thing. How could he have just admitted to doing something so odd? He felt sick. He closed his eyes.

“We moved in together?” Now Morse sounded happy? He opened his eyes again. Morse was bloody well smiling. Why was he smiling? His traitorous heart skipped a beat. God but he loved it when Morse smiled.

“Why are you smiling?” He grumbled.

“We moved in together.”

“And?”

“It’s cute.”

Cute?!? What on earth… This man would be the death of him. “Its embarrassing.”

“Probably. For you. But its still cute. I didn’t figure you one for being cute.” Was Morse teasing him now? 

“I’m not cute.”

“You are.” Morse smiled and closed his eyes. He looked so tired, but so much more peaceful than when he had found him earlier. “Can we go home now?” A smirk pulled at Morse’s face and he thought his heart might have stopped. What right did any man have being so damn beautiful, even laid out in the back seat of a car with a bullet wound to his shoulder, and a healing cut to his forehead. Although he really was far too thin. 

Peter sighed and started the car. He’d definitely lost this argument.

~~~~~~

Morse next came to as a cold draught wove its way into the warm space he had found. He shifted to try and evade it, but there wasn’t much space. Wait, warm? The attic wasn’t warm. It hadn’t been that cold either, but it hadn’t been cosy like he had been for a while. Had the old lady brought him a blanket? Or was it the fever?

He opened his eyes to see the smart trim of a car roof. _What?_ Then a door opened behind his head and Peter’s face came into view. 

“Peter?” The face above him creased with concern. The memories came rushing back. Peter had found him. Peter said he loved him. Peter had _moved his things into his own flat._ He wanted to laugh at the memory of how embarrassed he had looked when he admitted that. It really was cute. And quite possibly the most endearing thing anyone had ever done for him. Mad, yes, but wonderful too.

Peter frowned even deeper. “You’re still mocking me for it aren’t you?”

“No.” He tried to lie, but he couldn’t keep from smiling. “Are we there? At _our_ flat?” He laughed. It was a foolish mistake as it pulled at his shoulder, which still hurt like hell, and that sent him into another spasm of coughing.

Peter sighed “Bloody hell. How did you talk me into this? What have you done to my common sense?”

“Peter Jakes? Common sense? Sorry, must have missed that development.” He teased between sharp, painful, breaths.

“How am I going to get you up to my flat?” Peter asked, ignoring his teasing.

“I can walk, if you’ll help me.”

“You can...” Peter looked lost for words for a moment. “What do you mean you can walk?” He was incredulous. “With that fever and the wound-”

“The fever is settling, and the wound isn’t as bad as it seems.” He slowly pulled himself up to sitting. It took a few attempts. His shoulder really was bad, but the real injury was healing. He couldn’t quite bring himself to explain to Peter yet, didn’t quite dare to voice his most heartfelt hope. For the first time in as long as he could remember he felt like he was on his way to maybe being complete again. 

As he tried to get out of the car, Peter fretted around him. He had been trying to tease him earlier, but he really was cute. For all Peter’s bluster and bravado, underneath it all he was sensitive, and kind, and most definitely cute.

Peter got an arm around Morse, careful to avoid his injured shoulder, his own good arm he wrapped around Peter’s neck. Standing sent bright lights across his vision, the world spun, and he had to lean heavily against Peter for a minute until he felt steady and the pain had subsided somewhat.

They made slow but steady progress to Peter’s flat, or their flat as he had begun to think of it. They had to stop to rest several times. Peter looked uncomfortable but didn’t complain about his weight, or look around nervously as he might have expected. In fact he could almost say he looked embarrassed. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, as they travelled up in the lift.

Peter gave him a funny look, “you’re asking me?”

“You look sort of… red.”

“It’s from having to lump you around the place.” Peter shifted his weight as if trying to back up his blatant lie.

“You got me to the car from the attic just fine.”

“I’m fine. Perfectly fine, alright?” Peter’s voice rose defensively.

“So you’re not embarrassed?”

“No.”

The elevator doors crawled open and they made their way slowly along the corridor. Peter didn’t look to the other doors of his neighbours, he only looked at his own door, and occasionally shot swift glances at Morse. He couldn’t understand what was causing him to look so awkward.

“Why are you embarrassed? Is it because we might be seen together?” He asked quietly. Peter didn’t reply. They reached the front door and Morse leaned back against the wall while Peter found his keys and unlocked the door. His body ached, mostly from the pain in his shoulder, but also for the sudden space between them. Despite the pain he had rather liked being pressed so close against Peter. It had been too long. He looked down at his feet to try and hide his expression. “It is OK you know – if that’s why. It is a big thing to do… to be with a dragon… to be open about who you… want to be with. If you don’t want that, well, I’d totally understand.”

When he looked up Peter was staring at him open mouthed. “You are kidding me right?”

“No.”

“Come on. Inside.”

When Peter didn’t move to help him he frowned. “Some help..?” Once again, Peter flushed a rather beautiful shade of red. Now it was his turn to gape. “Are you embarrassed to touch me?” He whispered. Peter didn’t answer but did move rather mechanically to help him from the wall and into the flat. He bit down a sound of pain as Peter helped him down onto the bed. He got control of the pain with several slow breaths then looked back to Peter as he returned from closing the front door. 

“I’m not embarrassed.” Peter lied again. “Its just...different. Being so close to you.” He was still very red. He was definitely embarrassed.

“Peter, we’ve had sex. How can you be so… awkward just from helping me walk?” He was beginning to tire. He could happily lie down and sleep right here. Was this flat too hot, or was that him?

“That was different.” Peter said defensively.

“How?”

“We hadn’t said… well… we hadn’t said how we feel then.” He looked more red than ever. “Did you mean it, what you said before?”

“Said what?”

“Nothing.” Peter began busying about the room, getting the bed ready, helping him with his shoes, doing anything he could to avoid looking at him.

“Please…?” It really was far too cosy in here. He wanted to know what was wrong, but he also wanted to sleep, and to get away from the pain for a while.

Peter sighed. “Fine. Did you mean it when you said… when you said you loved me?”

“Oh!” Was he really still worrying about that? How could he not know? The way he felt for Peter ran through every fibre of his being. He was sure it was written all over his face ever since they had found one another once more.

“Its fine. You don’t have to answer.” Peter moved to help him ease back onto the bed, his arm around his back in support. As Morse laid down he effectively trapped Peter with him in a strange kind of hug. He looked him in the eye and smiled despite the pain moving had caused. He really was cute.

“I meant it, Peter.” He closed his eyes, he was so very tired, but for the first time in weeks, maybe even years, he felt like he could rest safely. “I love you.” He had meant it to be clear, but he was sure sleep was making his words soft and blurry, “and you’re cute.” He yawned, and was relieved when it wasn’t followed by a bout of coughing. “and I like our flat. Will you play a record for me? I missed my music, and you.”

As he drifted into sleep he felt the gentle press of Peter’s lips against his forehead, and not long after the sound of opera filling the room. At last he was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff... fluff, fluff, fluff... Happiness.


	20. Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well folks, we're finally here! The final chapter. I must admit there is so much more I want to write in this universe and I might end up coming back to it, but this part of the story is pretty much done so I need to round it off for now.

The phone rang several times before Debryn answered. In that time Peter had managed to convince himself he had done the right thing, changed his mind, and then changed it back again. The spectre of that room full of books and Callista’s unseeing eyes hung over him. Morse hadn’t been clear about exactly what it was he needed, but it was evident there was something he felt a hospital couldn’t fix about the state he was in currently. 

“Debryn speaking,” the clipped tones of the Doctor’s voice came over the phone line. All sense of what he should say now deserted him. He hung on to the receiver like it was a life line, but the words piled up, useless, in his throat. “Hello?”

“Doc?” He managed to croak.

“Sergeant Jakes? Is that you?” The Doctor’s voice was confused.

“Yes… look, Doc there’s… I’ve got a bit of a… situation. Do you think you could come by?”

“Of course. Where are you? At the station, or a crime scene?”

“No… no, I’m at home.”

“Right, well then, do you think you could give me at least a little more to go on than that?”

“I… I’d rather not… It’s hard to explain.” He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. He knew he was making very little sense but he couldn’t bring himself to put into words the situation he had found himself in.

“I meant could I have your address.” 

“Ah. Right. Sorry,” he gave over his address, listening to the sounds of Debryn scribbling it down. 

“I’ll be with you as soon as possible.” 

Peter replaced the receiver and was immediately at a loss for what to do now. He had a missing person with a bullet wound in his bed. That missing person had said he loved him. He had called him cute. Cute! Again! 

He drifted back into the bedroom. Morse was out like a light once more but he looked a lot more healthy in the warm glow that spilled out from his bedside lamp. He perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed and watched Morse’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall. Morse said he loved him. Nothing about that made sense to him, but he wasn’t sure that he cared. 

What was he supposed to do now? He’d thought that telling Morse how he felt would be the hard part, but that had been easy in comparison to this. He knew how he felt, and once admitted, it held no more fear. Knowing what to do to help Morse, to keep him alive, get his body healed, would soon be answered by Debryn he hoped. However, in this moment right now, he was all at sea, and what choices he should make after that were a whole other unknown ocean.

He took Morse’s hand in his and wove their fingers together, lightly rubbing his thumb soothingly across Morse’s own. In sleep the other man looked almost peaceful. The deeply etched lines of pain and worry that normally marked his face were washed smooth. He was still all angles, those cutting cheekbones, sharp chin and nose, all more prominent from the meals he evidently hadn’t eaten in the last days. Yet they appeared softer, more fluid, in the gentle light. If it hadn’t been for the Doctor’s impending arrival he would have loved nothing more than to lie down next to Morse, hand in hand, and get some real rest.

~~~~~~

Debryn arrived some time later. Peter tore himself away from Morse’s side to answer the door, trying to push away the irrational fear that washed over him whenever Morse was out of his sight. The Doctor raised his eyebrows at Peter when he answered the door. Was he really so easy to read?

“You look less pristine than usual.” Was Debryn’s only comment as he came in. Peter looked down and realised that he really did look a state. He had shed his jacket, his tie was loose and lopsided, his shirt was now mostly untucked and deeply creased, and that was all before considering his lack of shoes and the mud that spattered his trousers. He closed the door behind them, glad to see that Debryn had brought his bag, despite the fact he had failed to ask. “Did you finally decide you wanted to talk? Or have you done yourself an injury traipsing around the fields?”

“How did you…?”

“I know what it is to love a dragon. There was no way you were going to stop looking so soon.” Debryn set his bag down and looked around the room. “I wouldn’t have put you down as an opera fan.” He remarked. 

Peter coloured slightly. The record he had put on for Morse was still playing. He didn’t know what it was. He had chosen it simply by how well worn the cover looked and assumed it must be one of Morse’s favourites.

“I… I’m not exactly. Its growing on me though.” He said. Debryn looked like he might ask more questions so he hurried on. “See the thing is I didn’t call you here about me.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t want to get you involved in this if you don’t want to… but… he… he asked...” Emotionally blackmailed was probably a better definition than asked.

“He?” Debryn cut him off, sharp.

“Morse. I… I found him… sort of.”

“Where is he?” Debryn picked up his bag, clearly reading between the lines for all the important things Peter hadn’t said.

“In here.” Peter led the way into his bedroom. Morse was still sleeping. 

Debryn stopped at the end of the bed, took in Morse’s unconscious form, the torn clothes, the ridiculous bandage, and then sighed deeply through his nose. “And he’s not at the hospital for why exactly…?”

“He kind of panicked. Insisted I took him home. Only I… I didn’t think that was a good idea.” _Understatement of the century_ he thought. “So we compromised; I brought him here and I called you.”

Debryn raised an eyebrow at him. “Compromised?”

“OK, fine… he demanded and I gave in. Should we call an ambulance?” Part of him hoped the Doctor would say yes, it would take the burden of responsibility from his shoulders after all, but his guilt won out and he silently crossed his fingers that Debryn would somehow agree to Morse staying with him.

Debryn looked between the two of them and sighed again. “Not if we can avoid it. Morse wouldn’t heal well in a hospital. If the situation here is as I hope… well, then he’s better off here.” Peter wanted to ask what he meant, but Debryn didn’t elaborate. “Come along, help me getting him undressed. Those clothes look like they’ve seen better days and I need to examine him.”

~~~~~~

Morse came around to quiet voices over him, and the sound of scissors slicing through fabric. He panicked and tried to throw himself away from whatever was happening. An explosion of pain speared through his body and he screamed. Cool hands held him down. The voices grew louder.

“Morse? Morse? Endeavour, please… its me… Peter… and Debryn… you’re OK.” 

He stopped struggling and his eyes focussed on Peter. It really was him. He looked around and there was Max, frowning at him, and holding a pair of scissors.

“Are you trying to get yourself stabbed as well as shot?” He asked, dry as ever.

“What… what’s happening? Where am I?” He managed to ask. He felt uncomfortably hot, and his throat was tinder dry. 

Peter shot a worried look at Max and then smiled down at him. “You’re in… my flat. Do you remember?” The last few hours came back to him through the haze. He nodded. “The Doc is here to help. He needed to examine you and you weren’t waking so we needed to cut away the bandage. Are you alright to continue now?” 

He looked up at the man he had come to love and smiled. How could he ever have misunderstood him so completely as he had barely a year ago? Peter’s hands against his skin were exactly the right kind of cool. Like rain upon the desert. He could feel the renewed life his touch brought to his body and soul.

“Yes, sorry. I… I didn’t mean to panic like that.” 

“Its perfectly understandable.” Peter said, smiling back at him. He brushed a lock of hair back from his face, hand lingering against his cheek. Morse leaned into the touch. Then Peter’s face went red and he hastily stepped away, looking at Debryn.

Max shot Peter an amused look and sat down next to Morse in is place. “No need to be shy on my account.”

“Don’t tease him, Max” He rasped, but he was also having to fight back the urge to laugh at the scarlet hue of Peter’s face.

“I’ll go make some tea.” Peter muttered and hastily excused himself from the room.

“What have you done to that poor innocent man?” Max asked him.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. And what have you done to yourself?” Max began peeling away the bandage once more. He had to bite back the pain that cut through him. Everything had been such a blur that he wasn’t sure when he’d last changed it.

“I… It wasn’t exactly… intentional.” The urge to cough again was overwhelming.

“You put yourself in the path of a bullet, changed twice after that, _twice!_ Then _flew_ off to goodness only knows where. Which part of that wasn’t intentional exactly?” Max actually sounded angry now. “Then you hole up somewhere for two weeks without proper medical treatment and refuse to go to a hospital when that poor man finally finds you. You do know he’s been frantic? Out every morning, noon, and night, running himself ragged, looking for you. Wandering around looking like he might drop at any minute!” Max paused in his work and sighed.

Morse felt sick. The thought of Peter making himself ill looking for him sat uncomfortably in his chest. He suddenly felt overwhelmingly guilty. He’d known it was a bad choice to leave, but he’d not been thinking straight. After that, he had been plain stupid. He should have asked the old lady to get him help. He should have asked her to call Peter, or Max, or even Thursday, anyone that could help him really.

“I’m sorry.” he said quietly, and with as much sincerity as he could convey.

“I know.” Max gave him a small smile, his anger from before had faded. “You just had us all worried you know. After what happened… Well… I was just waiting for them to find your body. Defied yet more odds though haven’t you.” 

“You know me; stubborn.” 

“That’s an understatement. Right, well you’ll be glad to know that all your previous injuries are well on their way to healing, and miraculously you’ve not ruined your shoulder. That one hasn’t healed but it is no worse than it was two weeks ago. I hesitate to say its down to your frankly appalling attempts at first aid. The fever isn’t from infection, which leads me to believe its a result of your poor life choices catching up with you.” Max glanced back in the direction of the kitchen, where sounds of a kettle boiling could be heard, then back to Morse. “You understand the principles of healing for dragons with and without Haven?”

“Yes.”

“Do I need to be getting you to hospital?” Morse shifted awkwardly in the bed, setting off another spasm of pain. Max raised a single eyebrow at him in query.

“No.”

Peter returned at that point with three mugs of tea, thus sparing him any further questioning from Max. He passed one to Max, set another on the bedside table, and then loitered awkwardly at the end of the bed with his own.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Max gave Morse a warm smile. “Took your time though didn’t you?” Morse was pretty sure he was blushing significantly, but hoped that the fever might conceal it.

~~~~~~

After he had cleaned and dressed the wound Max left Peter with a long list of instructions, and a prescription for painkillers. Sometime during the evening they had shifted to calling each other by their first names. It was jarring to hear the Doctor call him Peter, or to call him Max, but it felt equally odd to continue acting like it was a case as they worked together to treat a mostly undressed Morse in his bed. If he was embarrassed by that, he had no doubt Morse was doubly, so he tried to act as if it was nothing.

Once Max had gone home, having given strict instructions to Peter to call him no matter what time it was if he had any concerns, he sat down and read the list. First up was a bath. _Seriously?! Was this doctor trying to kill him?_ Thankfully from there on in they became much more mundane. How to change a dressing if needed. Things to look out for. When to give painkillers, and how many. What was good for him to eat and drink. There was no mention of what to do about the fever, which confused him. He would have to call and ask Max once he was home.

Looking back at the list, Peter cursed Max one more time, then decided to bite the bullet and get it over with. He drew a shallow amount of warm water into the bath and mixed in the most gentle soap he owned. Morse gave him a confused look as he entered the bedroom. 

“What’s got you flustered this time?” Morse asked. His voice was a lot stronger since they’d been able to get him to drink something and have a bite to eat.

“Max seems to think you need a bath.” Peter cleared his throat. Morse laughed at him. “No, seriously. And he does have a point. You’d been in those clothes for two weeks and you really could do with a wash.” 

Morse considered him for a moment. “I’ll be fine going on my own if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“You’re not going to manage that.”

“Then help me?” Morse asked, his voice thick with suggestion. Peter had to stare at the ceiling for a while to calm himself. How on earth could this idiot make that sound like such a sordid invitation in his current state. He ran a hand though his hair and breathed out in frustration. 

“Fine. I’ll help. But for the sake of my sanity, _please,_ can you stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Morse smirked. He watched as Morse then promptly tried to get himself sat up unaided, and ended up doubled over with the pain. He wanted to say _serves you right!_ but the look of agony on his face was not an improvement. 

“Fine! Keep looking at me like that all you want. Just stop hurting yourself and let me help you.” He hurried forward to help Morse. Together they made the short trip into the bathroom, and got Morse settled into the shallow water. Morse held on to the edge with his good arm to keep himself sitting. 

“You’re going to have to help me some more if you want me clean.” Morse winked at him. 

Peter felt like he was living on the verge of a heart attack. It was not fair of the universe to present him with his Endeavour, naked, in his bath, making provocative comments, and yet be completely unable to do anything he would have liked in such a situation where a bullet wound wasn’t involved. 

“Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, before grabbing a wash cloth and starting to rub small circles across the areas of Morse’s back that were unbandaged.

“Maybe later?” Morse shot back at him with a laugh.

“You have a lot to answer for, you know that?” He grumbled, trying not to let the feel of Morse’s bare skin against his hand get him any more worked up than he already was. It was a losing battle.

Morse merely replied with an appreciative ‘mmm...’ and closed his eyes with a blissful look that did not help matters _at all_. 

Somehow they made it through the bath without Morse’s bandages getting wet, or either of them completely losing control. Getting Morse dry and into pyjamas was a whole other adventure. He didn’t know if he wanted to repress that particular memory, or relive it later in a more private setting.

Once Morse was settled back in bed, Peter allowed himself the luxury of hiding in the bathroom to ditch his own, now thoroughly ruined, clothes and change into his second pair of pyjama trousers. He didn’t own any nightshirts, and it seemed more than a little ridiculous given the evening they had just had to worry about putting on a vest instead. There was a massive sense of relief that he had his Endeavour back now, in their flat, and safe, but he also felt tense, stretched thin, from the trauma of the last few days and hours. He smoked a cigarette to try and calm his nerves before heading back out.

He looked in on Morse before intending to call Max. Morse was already drifting off to sleep, but when he saw Peter he called out to him. He looked back to the phone and decided it could wait a few minutes more. 

“Hey.” He said it like a kind of peace offering. Something simple, not loaded with all the layers of complication they had found themselves under.

“You look tired.” Morse said quietly. Peter shrugged. The last thing he wanted was to make Morse feel guilty. They had done this to themselves. “When I’m better you’re going to have to let me take care of you for a bit.” 

His heartbeat sped up. This was the first he had heard Morse really talk of a future that involved them together. He swallowed back a sudden and inexplicable urge to cry. “I’d like that. If you can ever keep yourself in one piece long enough.”

“I’m sorry, Peter. Truly, I am. I’ve made so many bad choices but… but you’re not one of them.” Morse smiled at him then, soft and warm, like a summer morning amidst the cold November night. “I’d like us to give it a go… if you want that too?”

Peter crossed the room and settled himself on the free side of the bed, as that was Morse’s good side. “I’d love that.” He took Morse’s hand and kissed it. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now come to bed.”

“In a minute. I need to telephone Max first.” He said regretfully.

“Why?” Morse asked with a yawn.

“I need to ask him about the fever. He didn’t leave any notes about that.”

Morse’s eyes, which had been steadily growing sleepier, were suddenly sharp. “The fever isn’t a problem.”

“What are you on about? Fever is a pretty serious problem. I need to know how to treat it.”

“You are treating it.” Morse’s response was wary. What was he hiding now?

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re here.”

“And that is treating a fever how exactly?” _Why were they arguing about this?_

Morse looked at him steadily, his expression guarded. “If I explain, will you promise not to overreact?” 

Peter frowned in confusion, but nodded his agreement. “Alright. Spill.”

“Dragons heal differently when they… when…” Morse started hesitantly, “They heal rapidly, much more so than human’s, when they have… when they… Well, the opposite is not only true, but more than that… We can get seriously ill when...” He was stuttering, the words not making any real sense, but when he said the last Peter thought of Callista, and it began to make sense.

“Because of Haven?” He ventured. Morse looked at him, still wary, and nodded. Something like a burst of pure and radiant love filled his chest. Peter remembered what Morse said, and what he had found out since, about Haven. How it was more than just love, _‘love and acceptance, home and hope, family and so much more,’_ Morse had said. Was that what Morse was telling him? That he was Morse’s Haven? 

“You understand?” Morse asked.

“Are you saying I’m your Haven?” Peter was pretty sure he was grinning like an idiot.

“If you’ll have me, then yes.” Morse gave him a small smile, but he still looked worried. How could he not know what Peter’s answer would be. The man really was blind.

Peter could soon fix that, he thought. He climbed onto the bed properly and laid down next to Morse. When Morse would have questioned him further, he laid a finger upon his lips to stop him, then replaced that finger with his own lips. Peter had never felt so ecstatically happy in all his life. Morse was his home now, his family. He had a family. A real one, where they loved one another. It wasn’t simple or easy, but it was perfect to him. 

He hadn’t kissed this wonderful dragon anywhere near enough for his liking, but he drew back. Morse’s eyes were golden once more, and there were traces of scales along the bridge of his nose, and fanning across his forehead, drifting seamlessly into those glorious red gold waves. He traced them gently with his fingers. Morse leaned into the touch and all but purred at him. The sound was unlike anything he had ever heard, and he wanted to capture it to keep in his heart forever.

“I’ll be your Haven for the rest of our lives, Endeavour Morse, if you’ll have me too.” He answered.

The smile that spread across Morse’s face was the single most beautiful he had ever seen in his life. “My Haven,” Morse breathed, and then kissed him so thoroughly that Peter forgot all that they had been through, all they had to face tomorrow and the days after, and lost himself in the wonder of having finally found love, a home, a family, his Haven, _his Endeavour._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was meant to be shorter than Castores but then it kept growing until we ended up here. There was just so much about this dynamic I couldn't help being fascinated by and wanting to explore. I was grudgingly aboard this ship at the start, but now I'm so completely committed. I blame the rest of you writers in the fandom!! (Still nope about 'Jarse' as a name for it though - I mean really! It's got arse in it. And I keep hearing it in a West Country accent, which is Not Helping.)
> 
> Thank you all for reading, commenting, and generally keeping me company through this rollercoaster. I've loved sharing every part of it with you. ♥♥♥


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